


To Hinder or Heal

by magickbeing, marian93



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Smuff, Smut, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, post reunion, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:38:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magickbeing/pseuds/magickbeing, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marian93/pseuds/marian93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a lazy, sunny Sunday afternoon that marked the second breaking of John Watson; much like the first, it was a complete destruction, a methodical breakdown—a swift, calculating move that was beautifully executed but became far messier than intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Break John

**Author's Note:**

> This is a roleplay turned fanfiction, written with my lovely Mary and her brilliant Sherlock. <3
> 
> Still a work in process.

Welcoming Sherlock back into his life was proving to be more difficult than he had once thought it would be. There had been many a night when John had convinced himself that Sherlock was still alive, that he _had_ to be alive, if only because of how desperately John needed him—many a night in which it was impossible for John to keep up the facade that he had moved on, that he was healing, and living, and _alive._ It was on these nights that John imagined their reunion—he had imagined it a thousand different times, it seemed, and in a dozen different ways; in one instance, he punched Sherlock, breaking his nose—in another, he held Sherlock close, gripping his jacket with closed fists for support—and yet in another, he pushed Sherlock against the wall and reacquainted himself with the man's presence in a more intimate way. What _actually_ happened was far different than anything John had imagined. Their reunion was considerably more awkward and took place in 221B, with John, silently fuming, jaw clenched, on one end of the couch and Sherlock on the other, pushing his way through an explanation and an apology. And when said explanation was done? John fled. He left, unable to face his once-dead flatmate any longer, and dragged himself to the nearest pub to drown himself in pint after pint, struggling to sort out his feelings somewhere along the way.

That had been the first—and last—night they discussed Sherlock's absence. He had been gone for nearly three years and then, all at once, he was back in John's life, leaving pickled body parts in the fridge and mold-covered specimen in the sink. He had returned without pause, as if nothing had changed when, in reality, _everything_ had. There had been more than one occasion in which John simply stopped, staring at Sherlock until he could believe that he was real, reacquainting himself with the man's presence. The normality had been nice at first. It had been comforting, reassuring, much like running a hand across a worn quilt, its fabric familiar, wrought with sentiment and weaved with memories—a quilt that, while nice to look at or hold, provided little warmth or use. Once John's initial shock wore off, the normality of their old life started grating against his nerves; the holes became apparent, glaringly obvious, and his anger resurfaced. He was angry at Sherlock for leaving—for lying—and strangely enough, for returning. He was angry at himself for being a coward—for wrapping himself in something that was no longer of use—for pretending things were okay when things were anything _but_ okay. He was angry at himself for allowing Sherlock into his life, as if forgiven—and he was angry at himself for being so angry. There was absolutely no logic to his anger—or the sadness that accompanied it. It simply existed, raw and smothering, and no matter how he tried, he was unable to move past it.

His nightmares returned with a vengeance. He stopped going out to the pub with Lestrade or going on dates or playing bridge with Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner; he slept little and ate even less. He was slowly slipping back into the depression that had overwhelmed him when Sherlock 'died', but this time, there was nothing to target, nothing to work through—nothing to _blame._ There was nothing to credit the hollow, dull ache in his chest to—nothing to explain his behavior. He pushed through each day on auto-pilot, going through the motions as if a very large and important part of himself had checked out and had yet to return—and so John waited. 

Sherlock had noticed, of course. He noticed everything. It was slow, but steady—John's descent into depression. He had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that John would be alright again with him back, that his mere presence would fix the doctor, like it had before—curing his limp along with his apathy. But this was different, and he could feel it. There was nothing _to_ cure, nothing visible like a psychosomatic limp or an intermittent tremor—just the blank look on his face, the vacancy in his eyes. It was as if he was waiting on standby, just _waiting_ for something to flip the switch back on. It had taken several weeks before the full regression had happened and Sherlock was left helpless against it, trying to stave it off by acting like he always had, trying to reassure John that he really _was_ back... but to no avail. And now there they were, sitting in the living room on a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon, trying to ignore the elephant in the room or, rather, the gaping, roaring black hole that sucked every ounce of feeling from the both of them.

Instead of going out for a walk or doing the dishes or picking up milk or, just, _anything,_ John sat in his usual armchair, staring blankly at his detective, newspaper across his lap. Becoming vaguely aware that he was staring, John forced himself to look away and toward the window, watching small, glittering particles of dust dance through the sunlight that filtered into their flat from the window.

Sherlock was watching his blogger—not that John even blogged anymore, but the title had stuck in Sherlock's brain—who, in turn, was fixing an unfocused gaze out the window. This _had_ to stop. There _had_ to be something he could do to _make_ it stop. And maybe Sherlock knew, maybe he was aware, on some remote and rarely-used part of his mind that wasn't completely oblivious to social interaction, what it was that John needed, but he was scared. He knew John needed to talk, needed to uncork the myriad of _things_ bottled up inside, clogging in his heart and mind, poisoning him from the inside out. He needed to rage and punch and scream and cry. He needed to _hate_ Sherlock and Sherlock needed to _let_ him. He just didn't want to because he knew that, if he did, there was the very real possibility—and perhaps the best one for the older man—that John may never come back.

Taking one look at the doctor's face, expressionless and yet so very, very tired, Sherlock silently said goodbye to the fleeting normality and the short-lived sense of _coming home_ he had experience and did a very uncharacteristically selfless thing: he put John's mental health before his own desires.

“We need to talk.”

Following the dust particles' slow descent for a moment longer, John's gaze pivoted toward Sherlock.

He visibly straightened, as if slipping into character, and his brow creased at its center, puckering. Those three words had been expected but dreaded. Even Sherlock—Sherlock, the man that swore caring was not an advantage, that seemed to suppress all possible sentiment, that committed dozens of faux pas on a daily basis—could only remain quiet for so long. He could feel the tension from his body slipping into the air, weighing down the conversation. He wanted desperately to avoid this conversation. He didn't _want_ to talk—he just wanted to be left alone.

Forcing a small, weak smile, John shifted in his chair, dropping his eyes from Sherlock and to his lap. He busied himself with folding up the newspaper, tossing it haphazardly onto the floor. How did he talk about this—what ever _this_ was—when he didn't know how to describe it to _himself?_  
  
“Yeah,” he muttered, his smile softening. “Sure.” 

He settled back into his armchair, his fingers coming to rest on his thighs, curling into his trousers and pressing hard. “Let's talk, then.”

Lifting his chin from where it was resting on his steepled hands, Sherlock dropped them onto his lap too, and weighed his options, unsure of where to start. It was strange how their positions had reversed. It was strange, feeling this much when he was used to feeling so little, and being the one to coax John out of his stupor, out of his black mood, when he was usually the one who had to pull Sherlock from his massive sulks. It was strange, knowing that this was it—the end. The only consolation Sherlock had was that it could be a new beginning for John, somewhere without resentments and old wounds left closed until they became infected—without deaths and grief and lies and disappointment—without him.  
  
"You—“ he stopped, restarted, "—there has been—" stopped again, hating himself for his lack of eloquence—one more time, "—you've changed." 

Well, that wasn't precisely a baffling observation, but he supposed it was a starting point.

The corner of John's mouth twitched, his eyes trained on his hands. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, turning his hands over and curling his fingers into his palms to form half-fists. A soft scoff escaped parted lips and he cleared his throat, pressing his lips together so that his mouth was thinned into a tight line. He looked to Sherlock, forcing himself to meet his gaze. There was no fake smile this time. His expression was guarded, carefully controlled. John gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“Yeah.”

He didn't say the obvious: three years was a lot of time.

The response was unsurprisingly dry, and Sherlock gave an internal sigh. The hard way it was, then. Leaning forward, eyes narrowing, Sherlock did what he did best. He deduced. 

"You are angry. The constant set of your jaw, the restless clenching and unclenching of your fists, the stiff posture all point to chronic anger. Your eyes, however, are tired and ringed. Defeated. They keep losing focus, but the lack of eye-movement denotes lack of linear thinking. You simply stop.” John visibly stiffened, his eyes fixated on Sherlock as he pressed on. “The popped vessels in your conjunctiva indicate sleepless nights, backed up by the rather vocal, almost nightly nightmares. Your refraining from social behaviors with our acquaintances, in addition to being out of character, suggests strong feelings of isolation and detachment. All of these are symptoms of depression. You are depressed, John."

Anger bubbled in John's chest, red-hot and raw, lighting him aflame, nerves exposed. Sherlock was acting as if he was telling John something that he didn't know, as if he was completely unaware of how he felt; he swallowed hard and then there was another smile, completely and utterly patronizing.

“Congratulations,” he muttered. “You're _so_ clever.”

His eyes held Sherlock's gaze for a long moment, darker than usual, before switching to the floor. Ah, _there_. That flare of fire, that blind flash of fury that made his pupils contract. It was something, uncontrolled and unregulated—like a broken faucet that only had two settings, gushing and shut—and better than nothing. John let out a slow, deliberate huff of a breath, desperately trying to keep his emotions under tight reign. When he looked back to Sherlock, he had forced his expression to soften, to become stoic again, and his smile had vanished. Too soon, the fire was suffocated and gone, replaced by that hateful calm—the quiet, poisonous rage—the one that exploded inwards, breaking everything that was John. 

“I'm very aware of it, thank you—anything else you'd like to mention?” John asked, tone clipped.

Sherlock knew he had been close; he had seen that volatile thing simmering just beneath the surface... if he could just tap it, just once, he knew it would come roaring its terrible, beautiful head.

"Yes. You are a masochist. It is the only explanation to all the facts. You seek emotional turmoil. It's like an addiction. Once I was gone, you replaced your need for adrenaline with a desire for misery. You feed it, and it gives you a dark pleasure, to suffer. Maybe it is a deep seated guilt for the people that died in Afghanistan. A search for redemption. Maybe you feel better knowing you are not living your life while they can never be. Maybe my death renewed that compulsion. For whatever reason, you seek pain, you crave despair, and you are never going to leave because I'm your fix. Always have been. Takes an addict to know an addict." He finished his tirade, leaning back on his chair and drumming his fingers on the armrest. There. The final shake. It wasn't true, of course it wasn't. But if it got John to react, to finally snap out of it, Sherlock was willing to lie. One last time.

He waited for the pressure of weeks —years, really— of bottled up feelings to reach their bursting point and explode.

There was little John could do but stare, his mouth opening, betraying the slow building shock forming with each word. Shock quickly gave into something more, his anger threatening to spiral from his grip and lash out. His heart quickened, beating hard against his ribs—loud in his ears, John struggled to focus on Sherlock, struggled to keep his anger at bay—but it was a pointless, losing battle. His fingers pressed hard into his palms, his knuckles turning white, and his jaw was tight, teeth clenched. Sherlock had managed to press every one of his buttons and for another long moment, John could do nothing but stare. The shock had vanished, melting into something more intense, his fury written across his face. How _dare_ Sherlock—he had _waited_ for him—had _believed_ in him for _three_ years—three _God forsaken years_ and because he wasn't instantly better, wasn't instantly _okay_ , Sherlock thought he had the right to judge him?  
  
Anger wrapped itself around his heart, stifling its beat and protecting it—there was a knot sliding up his throat, hard and acidic, a bundle of words slipping over his tongue and pushing itself through his lips. His voice was considerably lower than usual, its edge obvious. 

“ _I'm_ a masochist? Says the resident sadist—“ he stopped, shaking his head, face scrunched up in a strange mixture of pain and anger. He sucked in a deliberate breath, voice cracking. “I _waited_ for you for _three_ _fucking_ years. You made me watch you _fall_. I thought you were _dead_ —and there was _nothing_ I could do to change it.” He was on the edge of his seat now, his hands balled into tight fists. “Do you want to talk about my nightmares, Sherlock? They're _not_ about Afghanistan—they're about _you_. Even now—even knowing—“ he stopped, shaking his head, the words bitter in his mouth. “I watch you _die_ over and over. You're still _dead_ to me. I'm _so_ sorry if I can't turn a switch and make everything better—so sorry I'm such a bloody inconvenience.” He was on his feet now, his body trembling with each breath. “Maybe my mind is trying to tell me something, yeah? Maybe things were better when you _were_ dead.”

Oh. _Oh_ , that was surprisingly… destructive. Sherlock had known it would be violent, wild and harmful, just not quite this _devastating_. It seemed he wasn't the only one who knew exactly what words to say to cause the most damage. But his words were real. They were genuine, not a manipulation to ignite hurt and anger, which made it all the worse. This was John, the true, raw John. All false calm stripped, all smothering defenses torn away. This was his heart, bleeding and damaged and honest. And right. So very painfully right. Sherlock had done this to him. He had fixed him, given him a reason to be all he could be again, given him thrills and danger and excitement. The spark that had been missing from his life. Given him a friend. And then he had taken all that again, in one quick, smooth sweep. Elegant. Clean. 

Cold.

And not only had he taken it away, no. He had made him watch. Had made him promise to _"keep your eyes fixed on me"_. He had made him look as he plunged to his death, had made him smell the blood, take his pulse, made sure to break that tiny, desperate hope of finding a heartbeat that the doctor in him could cling to, that the friend in him could hope for. It had been a complete destruction, a methodical breakdown. Beautifully executed. Perfect in every detail. Sadist indeed. He had hit all the crucial points: visual, auditory, touch and smell. For a man with a history of PTSD, it was the perfect way to brand his brain with sensory input.  
  
The scientist in him cheered.  
  
The friend in him… the friend in him ran away and hid from what he had done.  
  
And now there John was, bringing him out kicking and screaming, with some well placed words and that _look_ on his face, to atone for his actions.  
  
Sherlock sat there, and stared. Stared at the man he had made, the man he had _unmade_ , and tiny little pieces inside of him broke. John's breathing was erratic, coming out in short, uneven puffs through flared nostrils and parted lips. He was right, John. He was so right. It would have been better if he had stayed dead. Or better yet, if he had really died in the first place. The only good he could see coming out of this was that John would finally be able to breathe, all that anger and damn well deserved hate was coming out, pus from a wound, cleaning him. And all he had to do was sit, trying to look detached and unfeeling, and let John heal himself some more. Scar over the wound and never, ever, let him in again.

As Sherlock stared, John searched his face, searched for some sign that what he said had affected the other man—but there was nothing. Sherlock was as neutral as ever, stoic and cold, and his detachment fed into John's anger. Of course he didn't really wish Sherlock had stayed dead—he _needed_ Sherlock. Even if he was struggling then, even if he was trying to wade his way through the darkness, he knew his only chance lay in the man across from him. Losing Sherlock before had made him re-evaluate a lot of things. He realized that they were very much two parts of a whole—Sherlock was logical, detached, impatient and meticulous—John was sentimental, compassionate, grounded and strangely impulsive. They _needed_ each other. Sherlock was the excitement John needed and John was the rock Sherlock anchored himself to. But right then, none of that mattered. Right then, John needed _heat_. He needed _anger_. He needed to know that Sherlock _cared_ , that he had returned because of _sentiment_ , not convenience—but right then, Sherlock refused to be what John needed.  
  
His mouth puckered into a scowl and he looked way, rolling his tongue against the inside of his lips. Sherlock could see it, then, almost pinpoint the moment John let go. John forced his fists to unclench, his fingers flexing out and stabbing the air, and Sherlock saw it for what it was—that last hope, that last reaching out of a hand to grasp at thin air. The equivalent of his checking of Sherlock's pulse after seeing him hit the cement, now in the form of one final searching look, a hopeless gesture more to confirm loss than in expectance of a miracle. The flimsy comfort that he'd _tried_. But no amount of wanting and trying and checking would stop the fall, or spark some recognition into Sherlock's face. He remained silent and that silence reinforced everything that John was afraid of—that his realization was one-sided, that Sherlock needed him less than he thought. After all, John was the reason Sherlock had died. He was Sherlock's Achilles heel. Maybe Sherlock had decided to distance himself again, rid himself of such weakness, and his return had been nothing more than part of a bigger plan, another ploy to leave John broken and alone.  
  
He shook his head, his eyes burning. Blinking against the sensation, John turned his gaze to Sherlock again.

His voice was dangerously low, barely audible as he said, “Well that settles that then, yeah?” He kept his eyes on Sherlock's. “I won't inconvenience you any longer.” 

There was a broken edge to his voice, his pain pushing itself through his anger, bloodied, desperate shards, a last attempt to reach the man across from him. He searched his face for a moment longer before stirring, pushing himself forward and toward the stairs to retreat to his bedroom.

And then he was gone, interrupted steps speaking of a returning limp.


	2. To Break Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Magickbeing—my apologies if this is a bit hard to follow at times. As said, it's a roleplay converted to a story and, while I'm trying to interweave everything to the best of my abilities, I'm a bit biased. I'll probably miss the occasional pronoun or assume that the character talking is, well, assumed, because I clearly know what I've written as John and what Mary has written as Sherlock.
> 
> That being said, if you see any glaring errors, please, please don't hesitate to point them out! I would actually love the criticism. (:

John started upstairs without another word. A switch seemed to flick itself—his actions were automatic, forced. There was an electric burning coursing through him, a fury uncontrolled, and he seemed to be breaking under its force. He was withdrawing into himself, even then, with adrenaline and anger rushing through his veins; he was forcing himself to do what was needed, to remain upright—half-functioning at best. He _hurt._ His heart strained against his anger, its beating erratic, almost quivering, and there was another knot forcing its way into his throat. His lungs burned and his mouth felt acidic, the aftertaste of words said.

He vaguely realized that he was trembling. His movements were jerky, automatic but broken.

His cracks were showing.

He was blown open, vulnerable and exposed, left without a cover. And yet, even then, with the edges of his blurred and darkened, there was a part of John that tied itself to Sherlock without his permission—a part of him that refused to fully believe that he was doing this—that he was about to leave. Had he really suffered through three years of Sherlock's absence, absolutely miserable, to turn his back toward the man now—willingly? Those three years had been absolutely horrid. He had learned to manage, yes, but only just. The loss never went away. Time never healed that wound, never made it— _him—_ better. No, it only brought with it the occasional distraction and even then it wasn't enough. He didn't relive Sherlock's death simply when he was asleep; it would wash over him, force itself into his mind and overwhelm him at random. There would be a flicker of a conversation, an image of bloodied asphalt and a chest too still, that would weave into his thoughts while he was with a patient or doing dishes or walking through London until his breath caught in his throat and the ground lurched beneath his feet. He would struggle to regain his composure, school his expression into its usual mask before someone realized just how utterly broken he had become.

Maybe Sherlock was right.

Maybe he _had_ traded the heated rush of adrenaline for something darker, something taboo; maybe he _was_ addicted to his misery—but if that was true, it was only out of necessity, only because misery was _something,_ and surely even misery was better than the emptiness, than the apathy that Sherlock seemed to subscribe to. Either way, John had been able to live. He had forced himself to—that was who John was, really. He was a soldier. He would persevere, even with the odds—his own mind—stacked against him. He was too concerned with how other's thought or felt to do anything else, to be anything but a coward, too hesitant to end his misery but too broken, too afraid, to live. And slowly, during those three years, John built a wall around his heart. He pushed the broken parts down, hid them from view, until the pain settled; dust blanketed his wounds, shielding them from the light. He became better at faking his way through a conversation: his forced smiles started appearing a little more genuine and a bit of the strain fell from his laughter.

When Sherlock returned, however, John's strength to pretend wavered. Unknowingly, John had let Sherlock pass through his wall. He had let Sherlock _in_. He had hoped Sherlock's return would do more than blanket his wounds with dust—he had hoped those pieces would start melding together again, much like a broken bone, and that he would later be fractured and nothing more. Once again, it seemed, John had put too much trust in the detective. He thought the other man would help him heal but instead Sherlock seemed just as content, if not more so, to ignore the damage done and plow through life without a second glance. Unable to process the change, John's mind became conflicted. If possible, his cracks intensified. He became _more_ broken, not less, and Sherlock seemed perfectly content to watch his once best friend self-destruct. Hell, he was even _encouraging_ it now, because John knew that if he stepped out that door—if Sherlock really allowed him to leave—that he would split into two. What ever control he managed to exert over his pain would fall. _He_ would fall, much like Sherlock had those years ago—only for him, there would be no miraculous recovery, no unexpected return. Even metaphorical, John's death would be very real.

Once again, time passed. Minutes slipped between his fingers, dark and blurred, falling onto the floor with an echoing sort of _tink_ , _tink_. More automatic gestures brought John's hands to his suitcase, fingers fumbling with its zipper and drawing it closed. He would stay with Harry. He would sneak back into the flat when Sherlock was out on a case to fetch the rest of his things—and then, maybe, John would leave London. He would disappear somewhere into the country, away from his old life and Sherlock and maybe, just _maybe_ , himself. Pulling his luggage off of the bed, hands clasped tightly around its handle, John started for the door. He couldn't even remember what he had just packed. He just trusted that it would be enough—trusted the part of himself that he had turned his control to—and started downstairs, his footsteps heavy, face hard but strangely neutral.

Sherlock sat for a long moment. He could hear John walking above him, left, straight, one, two, six steps… closet. Right. He was packing. There was the squeak of the suitcase's tires, the groan of the mattress springs as he laid it on the bed. It was so easy, so natural, to read and follow John's movements through the sounds upstairs. A sudden, furious panic swelled in his stomach at the realization that he would never do that again, hear those noises and know exactly what his flatmate was doing. John was packing. John was _leaving_. John was… living. Or would be, once he got out. There was nothing else to it. He had broken him and blatantly refused to aid in the fixing. John would be an absolute moron not to leave.

And yet that selfish, scared part of him reared its ugly head and tortured him, twisted the knife and laughed at his expense. It tortured him with thoughts of climbing up the stairs and stopping John—taking his wrists and pulling him away from the suitcase, pulling him towards him, pulling him into a long overdue embrace, pulling him inside and around and everywhere so he could always keep him, so he would never go. It tortured him with intimacy and breakfast in bed and lazy Saturdays and chases in the rain. It tortured him with a life, a life that wasn't his to give and wasn't his to take away again. John could have that, all that, without him—without the memories and the pain and the resentment he would be only too justified to feel.

No, Sherlock would sit here, in the same spot, muscles rigid and trembling somewhere under his skin, somewhere not quite physical.

He only realized he was silently crying when John's chair disappeared momentarily from view and colors began floating in his vision. He blinked and it was there again, only to disappear once more as his eyes refilled. A sniff and a hitched breath, a frantic attempt to stop, and an icy fear when the steps went right, right, one, two, four, the creak of a door and the descent of a former army doctor that was never meant to see him like this.

John kept his eyes on the floor; something in his chest expanded, throbbed, and a sharp pain coursed through him—he nearly dropped his luggage under its force—but then he as nearing the front door, setting it on the floor to shrug on a jacket and toe on his shoes. He was too aware of Sherlock's presence. He could _feel_ him, even there, feet away and across the room. He wanted desperately to hate him. Maybe hating him would be easier—maybe hating him would grant John a new focus, would lessen his pain and shield his wounds, but he couldn't. He couldn't hate Sherlock, much like he had never been able to stop believing. 

It would be useless, Sherlock knew, to try and move. His joints were locked, almost sore from the tension, and shifting—let alone _standing_ —was completely out of the question. He was aware of the sight he probably made, a grown man in his chair, frozen in the same position he was an hour ago, tears falling from unfocused eyes. If that wasn't pathetic enough, the noise that escaped him surely completed the picture. It was a tiny, wet little movement of his throat, a swallow that collided with a rising sob, and he tried to turn his head away, to hide his lack of control over his own body, but all he could manage was a twitch of his jaw. He shut his eyes instead, hard, a trail of warmth and then cold as the air that hit it alerted him of a new flow of tears and he had never, in all his years, hated himself more.

John's auto-pilot wavered: he spared a glance in Sherlock's direction at the noise that escaped the other man, his heart leaping into his throat at the sight. There was an audible hitch of breath as a word pressed itself from his mouth, considerably softer than before, laced with concern he was unable to hide—“Sherlock?”

"Go," was more mouthed than said, that hateful _knot_ in Sherlock's throat squeezing his vocal chords and making speech impossible. He cleared his throat, which sounded closer to pained groan, and tried again. "Go." 

He didn't dare open his eyes and see John finally take that step, finally cut out the gangrenous limb he had become. Sherlock had died, for all intents and purposes, and no matter how much he wanted to be back and be a part of John again, there was no pumping life back into him. He was an infection, a virus, not quite alive nor dead, and John needed to get the hell away once and for all before he consumed what was left.

And then, as if on cue, there was the shuffle of feet as John turned—but it was approaching, his focus on Sherlock. His eyes flitted across the other man, surveying, studying, trying to pick him apart and dissect him much like Sherlock deciphered every mystery he encountered. John's expression fell, contorted to show a glimmer of the pain he felt; his eyebrows drew together at their center and his bottom lip puckered up, his mouth pinching into a slight scowl in an attempt to protect itself from a frown. Sherlock was _crying._ Tears glistened under the sunlight radiating from the window, dancing in the shadows that played against his face. 

His expression told John that he was trying to swallow his pain, keep the tears at bay, but the floodgate had already opened and _Christ,_ Sherlock was crying. _Sherlock_ was crying—John kept thinking those three words, again and again, unable to believe the reality that they presented. His heart skipped a beat and the knot of nerves in his stomach flipped, rushed out and caused another wave of physical pain. 

John took another hesitant step forward, searching for something to say. Until that moment, Sherlock had never told him to go. Leaving had been John's idea. He could stay if he wanted to, couldn't he? And he wanted to. Despite everything Sherlock had just said—despite the last three years and their pain—despite Sherlock's arrogance and lack of social ability—despite the bloodied slides tossed carelessly in the kitchen sink or the pickled fingers—despite his nightmares—despite _everything,_ John wanted to stay. But then the question became did Sherlock _want_ him to stay?

If Sherlock was a different sort of person, John would have assumed the obvious—yes. He wanted John to stay. That was why he was upset. But this was _Sherlock Holmes_ and he had a habit of blowing apart every assumption John had ever made. Uncertainty pressed against his anger, shoving it aside and overwhelming it.

He took another hesitant step toward Sherlock, his legs carrying him without command—then another—until John was right in front of him. 

Sherlock could feel John's presence, that shift in the air right in front of him, before seeing the doctor's shadow block the light from behind his eyelids. Sherlock opened his eyes just in time to see John crouching down by his chair and locking those dark —darker than usual— blue irises in his own. His breath caught as he stared at the naked plead in those eyes, the open _hurt_ , and John's edges blurred and disappeared until Sherlock blinked. John had lowered his wall again, unable to find something, _anything_ to say to comfort Sherlock, allowing his expression to become unguarded, to say what he couldn't. _No. Please. Ask me to stay. Tell me you want me to stay I need this—you—please._ And oh, the message was certainly clear. John needed Sherlock to stop him from leaving, needed Sherlock to do what he had dreamt of, take his hand and lead him away from the door. Sherlock felt a flash of bitterness at his luck. Leave it to him to lose his grip on his emotions right when John was leaving. He was so close, so damn close, to setting him free. Scrambling for some semblance of determination, Sherlock looked away from John's yearning, his last chance to save him. But that was it, wasn't it? Friends protect people. This was Sherlock protecting John, one last time.

"Please, go."

Hearing those two words physically pained John. His breath caught in his throat again, a strangled sort of scoff, and he averted his gaze, dropping his eyes from Sherlock's and to the floor. The knot in his chest twisted again, throbbed, and another sharp pain rushed through his body; Sherlock wanted him to leave. Sherlock didn't want him—didn't _need_ him—and John's eyes were suddenly burning, his lungs seizing, and the knot in his chest had pushed itself into his throat, expanding with each choking breath. Sherlock didn't turn his head back to John and therefore didn't get to see the deflated look, the slap of resignation as he pulled himself to his feet and raced to the door. Grabbing his luggage, John attempted to save what little dignity he had, pulling its scraps around him like a shield, and threw the door open. He stepped out into the hallway and shut it with more force than intended. The slam snapped Sherlock out of his suspended state, and he jerked at the sound, whirling his face to look at the cold, unforgiving wood. Heaving a long, drawn out breath, too ragged to be steadying, Sherlock slumped in his chair, muscles relaxing after being contracted for so long. It was not relief what he felt, no. It was pain. The shaky firing of nerves to places that had fallen dormant, the expanding ache to all the nooks and crannies that had been numb for years. It hurt. _Everywhere._

Sherlock let his upper body lurch with a silent sob, hand rising to dig his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, squeezing the water out only to have more welling and spilling over around them.

It was only after a few erratic heartbeats that he heard the series of thumps beyond the closed door. The suitcase rolling down three— no, four steps. The sliding of fabric against wallpaper, the dry thud of a body hitting the floor, his brain provided him with the data, even when he could barely breath around the involuntary gasps begin torn from him. And above the blood rushing in his ears, he heard it. The same noises he was making, muffled by the wooden barrier between them. John. Strong, warm, _wonderful_ John. Reduced to… crying—for a selfish, undeserving excuse of a friend like him. The sheer _wrongness_ of it all spurred him into action and he heaved himself up from the chair, making his way to the door and throwing it open.

Tears rushed over John's eyelashes, hot and unwanted, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to prevent their fall. The darkness behind his eyelids wavered, brightened and then returned, and his breath came in choked, muffled sobs that racked his entire flame. He saw bloodied asphalt and blue eyes, blown open and frozen—pushing the heels of his palms against his eyes, John shifted, hunching over so that his elbows were resting against drawn-up knees, face hidden from view. Those two words— _please go—_ formed a mantra in his head, breaking him further with each repetition; his chest heaved, lungs burning from lack of oxygen. The doctor in him told him to calm down, to focus, to concentrate on nothing more than the deliberate rise-and-fall of his chest, but such thoughts were nothing more than a dull echo in an otherwise turbulent mind. He _needed_ Sherlock. He owed the other man so much—he had come to rely on him so heavily, too heavily, and to know that the sentiment wasn't returned, to doubt that it _ever_ was—he sucked in a sudden breath, the action doing little to alleviate the pain radiating from his core. Of course, it was no wonder Sherlock didn't need him—he was pathetic. Broken. He was nothing more than a shadow of himself, a half-functioning shell, and even that was crumbling, his facade crashing to the floor around him.

Sherlock stood at the threshold, watching the curled form of his former best friend on the third step down, and his heart thumped painfully against his chest. Aware of his presence, John shifted again, turning further away from him, his feet falling to the step below, body curling into his knees. A part of him yelled, _screamed_ at him to regain his composure and force himself to his feet and out the door—but he couldn't move. He was paralyzed, glued to that spot, with tears rushing down his cheeks, skin flushed and face contorted. His fingers pressed hard against closed eyelids, triggering phosphene; spots of light danced through the darkness but their flicker did little to soften John's edge, shame rising. He was pathetic. Utterly pathetic. John tried to reason with himself. Sherlock was right there—alive--and even though he didn't want him—didn't need him—he was alive. Couldn't that be enough?

_No,_ his brain answered, thoughts turning to a headstone and thinly etched letters in dark granite. His pain pulsated.

“You need to stop.” Sherlock's voice sounded wrecked, and he almost walked backwards to hide behind the doorway in shame. He didn't. “You need to stop that. It's... not—“ Not what, he didn't know. Not right? Not logical? Not meant to ever come from someone like John? Yes, all of those. But mostly, “Not for me. Never for me, John.”

He braved a step forward, stopped—then took another until he was on the edge of the stairs.

The sound of Sherlock's voice barely pierced through the turmoil coursing through John's mind and his footsteps were unheard; a low ringing echoed through his ears, the rush of blood to his head, and John's fingers moved from his eyes and dragged over his brow, across his temples and up his forehead, leaving the skin marked and angry. Sherlock thought him pathetic, too—it was obvious in his voice, in his words, and John could feel a familiar tension invading his body. He dug his fingertips into his scalp and bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

Sherlock had never seen John in the throes of a panic attack, had met him after that stage of his recovery was mostly over, but he had read enough about them after John's first nightmares to recognize one when he saw it. There were things that Sherlock would never be able to delete: the smile John had given him that first day, after joking about the cabbie's route—the tense line of John's shoulders as he clutched the back of his chair before snapping at Sherlock for not caring about his victims—the nod in the pool when John put his life in Sherlock's hands to end it if it came to that—the slurred "he's my friend, he's my friend, please,”—and this.

Feeling a momentary flash of blind panic gluing him to the spot, Sherlock had to force himself to unlock his body and run down those few steps to kneel on the one below John. He raked his eyes over the hunched man, unsure how to begin, reaching out his hands only to let them hover over the fists that clenched around the short blonde hair. 

"John," He tried to keep his voice quiet and calm, but the underlying tremor betrayed him. No amount of books and medical journals had prepared him for this. He supposed it wasn't cold facts and data anymore—not when sentiment was involved. "John, it's…" Oh, but what a lie it would be to say it was okay. "I'm right here, just breathe, I'm here," at least that was true.

Each of John's lungs clenched and unclenched, twisted this way and that in his chest, but no matter how he tried to concentrate, John found himself unable to breathe. The darkness behind his eyelids wavered, darkening further, past black and into a strange void. He dug his fingers harder into his scalp as if steadying himself, his body trembling, convulsing—the ground beneath him seemed to lurch, John's balance altered by the low rush of blood to his head, and his temples throbbed—before he could falter, lose his balance and fall forward, there were hands against his. He opened his eyes, blinking blearily at Sherlock as he struggled to breathe, his thoughts churning, rushing into an incoherent blur. His heart _hurt_ and was loud in his ears, its beat erratic and quivering. John struggled to focus. Sherlock was _there_. He was _alive_ and _there_ and Christ, why couldn't he breathe? 

Giving up on the white-knuckled grip John had on his head, Sherlock lowered his hands to the doctor's biceps, not holding or closing around them, not restraining in any way, simply resting there, occasionally rubbing up and down slowly. 

"John, just breathe, I'm not leaving you. It's… going to be okay." 

_Eventually_ , his mind whispered.

Slowly, John could feel himself relaxing—although there were four words that nearly sent him over the edge again: _I'm not leaving you._ It was a lie—a sweet lie that Sherlock was muttering in an attempt to calm him, to get him to breathe, but a lie nonetheless. Sherlock _was_ leaving—or rather, he was making _John_ leave. Either way, everything was far from okay. It had stopped being okay a very long time ago and seemed to be getting progressively worse. But John couldn't think of that right then. Subconsciously he recognized Sherlock's words for what they were, but right then, in that moment, John drank them in at face-value. He gave himself over to Sherlock again, anchored himself to the man and allowed his touch to ground him. 

All of the coping strategies John had learned during his first few days after his release from the hospital had vanished, faded into the back of his mind, trampled by his self-hatred and doubt. But Sherlock was there—calm, cool, _collected_ Sherlock—and John tried to focus on the sound of his voice, soft and steady, piercing through his thoughts more easily than before. 

The rapid and short bursts of air were in no way slowing down or regulating, and Sherlock felt himself despair for a few heartbeats before beginning to count. "Breathe on my count, John," his voice was steady and low, having found a purpose. "On two, breath in, one, two, breathe in." 

He waited for John to comply, but the gasps didn't quite coordinate. Nevertheless he continued. 

"Breathe out on two. One, two, breathe out. Again. One, two, breathe in. One, two, out." 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock could see the stuttering breaths hold to try and match with his count. They couldn't quite manage it, exhaling more at 1.5 than 2, but it was an attempt. 

"Good, that's good, John. I'm here," he didn't know why it felt so important to repeat that, but it did. He just wanted John to know he wasn't alone. He was safe. "Keep breathing, you're doing great. One, two, in. One, two, out."

It was a gradual thing, but soon John began following his voice, and Sherlock moved on to three, then four. Finally, when John was breathing in and out on the count of five, hands unclenched and simply holding his own head up, Sherlock stopped. The tension in John's body continued to melt away, the burning in his lungs starting to subside as he gulped air in greedily. His tears had also slowed, falling silently through red-rimmed eyes and over flushed cheeks instead of in hard, racking sobs.

"I'm here," Sherlock whispered after the last count. For whatever was worth, he could be here for John in the end.

Splotches of color covered John's neck and it was a long moment before his eyes opened a crack, sliding up to Sherlock's face before changing course halfway through and shifting down to the floor. He tried focusing, his vision pinpointing a particularly dark scuff mark before blurring again—he blinked against it and refocused, drawing in another slow, deliberate breath. It was loud in his ears, raspy and pathetic, and John carded his fingers through his hair before shifting, allowing his hands to drop to his lap. Sherlock had lied. Nothing was okay. Technicalities aside, he _was_ leaving John. He didn't want him in his life. He wanted him to _go_. John stared numbly ahead and remained quiet, save for the slow, rasping breaths he sucked in through parted lips and an occasional sniffle. He was suddenly exhausted and he seemed to deflate into Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock kept his hands on John's arms, occasionally sliding them up to his shoulders and then back down. He could see the shine of the tears in his colored cheeks, and focused on them as he watched John begin to come back to himself. The blue, swimming eyes would not meet his, and he couldn't blame him. He had been in the middle of leaving because Sherlock had pushed him away when the attack had hit him. He was probably the last person John wanted to see. Still, he kept the motions of his palms on John's arms, if anything to prolong their contact. Swallowing, Sherlock was about to speak, not sure what, when John seemed to sag further and tilted forwards. Sherlock's arms slid around to encircle his whole upper body, fingers splayed on the older man's back, feeling the rise and fall of his deep breaths. No hesitation, not when it came to helping John, Sherlock shifted to sit beside him on the step, pulling him close and resting his chin on John's crown. He didn't say anything. He just breathed John in and hoped to God the doctor let him stay there for a little while longer.

And he did, despite better judgment. John _knew_ he should pull away. He knew he should disconnect himself before it became even harder than it already was—leaving Sherlock was already putting a great deal of pressure on him, a strain he was powerless to stand against. Allowing Sherlock in again would only serve to break him further. Nothing good would come from it. It didn't change the inevitable, the fact that Sherlock didn't need him. He was just being nice, as uncharacteristic as that was—John's breath hitched, a glimmer of hope trying to weasel its way into his thoughts. It faded soon after, became tarnished with doubt, but John found his arms wrapping around Sherlock anyway, drawing himself closer to the other man, anchoring himself despite common sense. He was already going to hell. He might as well take the scenic route. Swallowing thickly, John scrubbed a hand against his face before tucking toward Sherlock's body, eyes on the stairs below them. He could vaguely hear Sherlock's heartbeat; the sound was rather bittersweet and caused an array of letters to arrange themselves on his tongue before pushing through pursed lips. 

“Just—stop this,” he muttered, voice cracking from the strain his attack had put him through. 

“Please. I...” the words caught in his throat and he shifted in Sherlock's embrace, sucking in a sudden breath before plowing on. “I don't want to leave.”

Sherlock's chest clenched so hard he was momentarily alarmed, thinking there was something genuinely, physically wrong with him. After a moment in which he hadn't keeled over, he figured he wasn't having a heart attack and swallowed against the suddenly parched walls of his throat. Every breath seemed to dry his pharynx even more and his swallowing became louder. 

"John—“ what was he supposed to say? That he didn't want him to leave either? That the mere thought made him want to run to his nearest stash and pump poison into his veins until he couldn't feel anymore? No, John wouldn't want to hear that. John wouldn't want to hear anything, not anything Sherlock could give him at least. He had never been good with sentiment, especially when it was as conflicted as now. John couldn't stay with him, couldn't keep corrupting his perfect nature with the dark, toxic feelings Sherlock evoked in him. He had done it once, twice now, he was not willing to do it again. And yet... there was something else that had almost killed him the first and second times, and he couldn't fathom a third. Pushing John away. Something inside him rebelled at the thought of his own voice telling John he was a fake, telling John to _"Please, go."_ It was akin to an allergic reaction, and it repelled him. So there he was, stuck between two impossible choices, not closer to making either one. So he stayed there, silent, tightening his hold on John and trying to draw every ounce of closeness he could before he had to decide.

John could still hear the soft thrum of Sherlock's heart, faint but reassuring, and silence fell between them. He thought he felt Sherlock draw him closer but quickly contributed it to wishful thinking, the misguided hope that Sherlock would _react_ , open himself up and let John in—the bit of optimism that insisted on rearing its ugly head even in John's darkest thoughts. He knew that's what addiction was, though—that misguided hope, that tiny, persevering voice that insisted things would get better. It had been wrong far more than it had been right and so, when no reply came, John wished desperately for the strength to pull away—but his strength had abandoned him. It had buried itself under his broken pieces, compressed by the weight of his sadness and anger and regret. John closed his eyes. There was so much that he wanted to say, so much sentiment that threatened to pour from his lips at that very moment—it was frightening, how quickly he had turned back to Sherlock, how quickly he wanted to forgive him and be forgiven in turn. 

Two words escaped, barely audible: “I'm sorry.”

There was nothing to forgive John for, nothing he had done wrong, and it was that whisper, those two words spoken that tired, _so tired_ way, what tipped the scale. It was that exhaustion, the one he felt reflecting his own, what plunged Sherlock into one of the abysses.

"I can't…" he whispered at last, desperation building inside until it tumbled out of him in a sob. He couldn't. He _couldn't_. His body jerked against John's, causing the doctor to straighten, to shift into a sitting position without disconnecting, without withdrawing. Even then, John was powerless to pull away. Instead, John searched his face, his own brow furrowed, mouth parted in surprise—the lines around either eye spoke of his concern, the corner of his mouth turned down into the slightest of frowns as Sherlock pressed on. 

"I can't, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't." Sherlock knew he was babbling, and he shut his eyes hard, unused to this whirlwind of emotions and suddenly hopelessly overwhelmed by them. He couldn't. He _really_ couldn't. "I'm sorry." His choice had been made. He couldn't do it and it broke his heart, because he knew his choice was the wrong one. But he couldn't. And in the end, he had chosen himself. "I can't. I can't tell you to go again. Do you understand?" 

Of course he didn't, Sherlock thought—and yet, right then, John thought he recognized something in Sherlock's expression. He recognized his sadness, his desperation—it was mirrored, written across Sherlock's usually stoic features. If John had ever thought seeing such a thing would make his own pain more manageable—easier to deal with—he was wrong. He didn't feel any less alone. If anything, John felt worse, knowing that he had caused someone so strong to crack and crumble.

John's mouth puckered into a pained grimace and his hand stirred on its own accord, shifting along and gently stroking Sherlock's side in an attempt to calm him, hoping that his touch would bring him comfort in the way Sherlock's touch had brought it to him—that it would anchor Sherlock and offer him some sort of solace. The irony of their switch was not lost on Sherlock. It was John who was reassuring _him_ now that he was there, and the detective who was comforted by the slow, steady caress of the hand on his side.

"I _can't_ and now you'll be… you'll be miserable and you're not a masochist, I was lying, of _course_ I was lying, John. You are not a masochist and you don't like pain and now you'll be surrounded by it because that's all I—" Sherlock had to take a stuttering breath, "I ever do. I hurt you. Time and time again, but I can't. Please, just…" _Just stay. Just make the right choice and leave on your own accord. Just save yourself. Just save_ me. _Please, just save me_. "Don't go. I'm sorry."

John's breath caught in his throat at the request, at that request he needed so desperately to hear. It implied everything John needed—it assured him that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock needed him too. He let out a sudden huff of breath. John's mouth turned into the faintest, most fleeting, of smiles before returning to its pursed pucker; following impulse, if only because he was too weak to fight it, John's other hand moved up to cup the side of Sherlock's face.

With the slightest of pressure applied through warm fingertips, John guided his face to turn until their eyes locked. Sherlock stopped breathing altogether at the gesture, able to feel John's thumb grazing over his cheekbone and spreading tingles all over his scalp and down to his neck, while the hand at his side did the same along his spine. John's eyes searched his, his pain apparent, reply weighing heavily against pursed lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to whoever has read, commented, or given kudos to this story! We hope you're liking it so far! <3


	3. To Brace

John's heart seemed to skip a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching as he quietly promised, “I won't.”

The words were no louder than John's apology had been, barely audible and breathless.

“I'm here. I—“ _I love you and I'm here,_ he thought, his words interrupted by a sudden breath, “—I'm not going anywhere.” _Not if you don't want me to. Not ever._ John nodded, as if reinforcing his words, his thumb brushing against the curve of Sherlock's cheekbone again. “I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. I—I need you.” _More than you know._ And that was the problem, wasn't it? Their lack of communication and the fact that John needed him more than he needed himself—that he had _always_ needed him, but Sherlock had left and—and nothing. He was there now. Alive. Safe. Those three words made Sherlock tense and sigh in relief all at once. The responsibility of having John need him was terrifying, and he was almost sure he wouldn't be able to live up to his expectations, but at the same time, the requited feeling was a balm to his frayed nerves.

“I'm here,” John repeated before, in a quiet breath, “and you're here. Alive.” He sucked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, regret flashing across his features. “And I—I didn't mean what... what I said. I—I could never mean that.”

Slumping sideways a bit against John's shoulder, Sherlock sighed once more. John reflexively compensated for the movement, shifting so that Sherlock was tucked firmly against his side.

"You were right, though. I hurt you and I'm sorry. I did... I _planned_ it, I..." Sherlock huffed a humorless scoff, "I customized it for you. Don't be so sure I'm not a sadist, John. It's not a big leap from sociopath."

“You did what you needed to do,” John muttered, his lips twitching, pursing together into a thin line. The hand against Sherlock's cheek retracted, dropped to John's lap, with its fingers curling against his trousers and tucking into his palm. His other hand kept its slow, reassuring movements and John swallowed hard. His first instinct was to run away again, to withdraw, scramble and hide his broken parts—but he was too tired. He didn't have the strength and maybe it was better that way. Maybe talking _would_ help—if he let it. “Yeah. It hurt.” John averted his gaze, his eyes flickering past Sherlock and focusing on the wall. “A lot.”

_More than you know. I need you, remember?_

He dragged his gaze back to Sherlock's eyes.

“It still does. But... you saved me, right?” The corner of John's mouth twitched and he pressed on. “Wouldn't be alive without you.”

Even if John didn't feel as if he was alive, each breath, each beat of his heart told him otherwise. He let out a slow, deliberate breath, but it was a shuddering sort of sigh at best. “You're not a sadist. I... I don't believe, for one minute, that it made you happy. The chase, maybe. The thrill. But not that—not...” _breaking me,_ “...not _that._ ”

Sherlock shook his head, too drained to do much more. No, it hadn't made him happy. The hardest thing he had ever done, harder than telling John that he was a fake, harder than taking that final step off of the roof, harder than tracking down every member of Moriarty's web—harder than anything and everything—had been staying still while John moaned, ' _Jesus, no. God, no,'_ to push down the overwhelming urge to sit up and pull John into his arms, to tell him that it was alright. No, it most definitely had not made him happy.

John cleared his throat, rolling his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip. “Just—it's going take time,” he continued with a slight scoff. “Obviously.”

Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, Sherlock's petulant inner child was getting impatient. Now that things seemed to be looking up, he wanted to lay down, curl around John, and sleep for two or three months. Four, maybe. But the bigger part of him, the one that understood there was an order to things, was unbothered by staying put for a bit. It would need time, indeed.

"John," Sherlock said. Just his name, then stayed silent for a moment—and there was something about the way that Sherlock said his name that, as always, made a piece of John quiver, as if that single syllable itself, spoken in that baritone voice, helped him heal—as if it reminded him of who he was, of who he used to be and _needed_ to find. When Sherlock spoke next, his voice was soft and small. "I want to help. Somehow. I was doing it wrong before, obviously. But as you well know, sentiment is hardly my strong suit. So, what can I do?"

The corners of John's mouth pulled up into a quick, fleeting and strangely reflexive, smile. Hearing Sherlock say that—that he wanted to help—knowing that the sentiment was there—well, that almost seemed to work its own wonders. But the smile melted a moment later, his grimace returning. It was too fleeting, that smile. It had been almost non-existent these past few weeks, aside from the forced, empty ones that would barely move his cheeks, let alone reach his eyes. 

John thought carefully but the answer came quicker than he would have liked.

“I don't know,” John muttered, a bit breathlessly. And it was the truth. He didn't know how to move past this—he didn't know what he needed to heal, to start that process, to at least move on. He didn't have a single answer to give Sherlock but at least he had that—honesty. He swallowed thickly, searching Sherlock's face. “I—it's hard. Sometimes I... forget. That you're here. Alive.” The corner of his mouth twitched up into a faint, pained smile, his brow creasing. “Just—help me remember, yeah?”

Sherlock knew it would be hard, he knew this was just the first step of many, but he was willing to walk the long way of it meant John would get there in the end. Would get better, be _his John_ again. Looking up at the doctor, seeing all the little quirks on his face that were more decorations than flaws, Sherlock nodded and replied, "Of course. I... thought it was reminding you too much what had... I was wrong."

John's lips twitched into another glimmer of a smile. He was so rarely wrong—John had almost came to cherish those moments, those few incidents that proved Sherlock to be human after all. Almost. Some were far too painful to cherish, too corrupt on his soul. John cleared his throat.

Sherlock could see a loose eyelash from John pressing his hands into his eyes before, resting next to John's nose, and it was distracting. He reached up and pressed his thumb to it, blowing it away when it was on his finger. John's heart jumped. Sherlock didn't lower his hand, not even sure why. Maybe this would help? What better way to remind John of his presence than to touch him? John barely contained the urge to shift into Sherlock's touch, to press his lips against the shell of his palm and deliver a chaste kiss to pale skin. He forced himself to remain perfectly still, his eyes fixated on Sherlock's, pupils slightly dilated.

With a slow breath, John managed, “This—“ he cleared his throat again, “—this helps.”

The words were followed by a deliberate movement of his hand, his touch continuing its path along Sherlock's side. A bit of color washed across the high-spots of his cheeks and he suddenly felt far more exposed than before—but a part of him realized he would need to move past that, too—that he needed to be honest if he wanted this to work or, at the very least, to avoid another incident like this. John could see the familiar flit and flicker of Sherlock's eyes as the other man did what he naturally did best; he could see Sherlock searching, observing, _reading_... he could practically hear the connections being made. And yet, no matter how exposed John felt, he remained where he was, his breathing steady and even, eyes locked on Sherlock's. 

Sherlock sometimes wished he didn't _see_ quite as much—wished he could blind himself to details and even if he couldn't , at least not immediately catalog them into categories in his brain: meaning, source, explanation, result, cause, effect. But he did, which is why his eyes were instantly drawn to the change in pupil size in John's. The lighting hadn't changed, there was no reason for any spike of adrenaline other than the hand he had placed on the doctor's face, and that meant... No, that could mean a lot of things. That could mean John was uncomfortable for all he knew. But then _there_ , that minuscule tilt of John's face towards his palm and the breathless quality of his voice when he spoke. If it had been unpleasant, surely John wouldn't tell him it helped, would he? Wanting to test his theory, Sherlock made a long sweep with his thumb across John's cheek and back, eyes never wavering from his flatmate's, and leaned in just... a bit... closer.

John's face heated beneath his touch, the muscle along his jaw twitching in a contained reaction. His hand had hesitated for but a moment before continuing its gentle, now unneeded strokes, and John remained quiet, letting Sherlock in.

The blush was the final proof, and just as he received it, Sherlock had no idea how to react, how the knowledge made him feel, and least of all what to do with it. He knew this could just be an exercise in trust, just John letting him see all his vulnerabilities. He knew there was the real possibility he was reading it all wrong, but the hope had nestled in his heart and he was feeling reckless. If John hadn't left after the fall, after his attempts to push his anger over the edge, after his _request_ for him to leave, the chances of him walking away over this were slim. John would stay, he had to. If it had been a misunderstanding he knew he could count on John to chalk it up as one. John would stay. John would stay. The mantra seemed to be punctuated with each stroke, back and forth, of John's hand on his side. John would stay.

With that wild certainty that was not certain at all, Sherlock closed the distance between their faces and pressed a fleeting kiss right next to John's nose, where the eyelash had fallen to. There was an audible hitch of breath on John's part, his eyes falling closed in a delayed blink. John's heartbeat was loud in his ears again, although this time for an entirely different reason; adrenaline shot through him, ghosting over frayed, over-exposed nerves and shooting through dark crevices—through parts that had long ago fallen dormant. Something in his stomach seemed to swell, quiver, and the hand against Sherlock's side stilled, surprise following the course his adrenaline had mapped out. Opening his eyes, John looked to Sherlock, feeling very much as if he should say something but without a clue as to what. That was—nice. More than nice, if John factored in Sherlock's apparent disadvantage with sentiment. His lips parted but nothing pushed past them—instead, John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's mouth, his gaze lingering a moment longer than proper before sweeping up and resting on Sherlock's again. His heat started beating hard against his ribs and it would be easy, _so_ easy to lean in and—nothing. The doctor had tensed in anticipation to move —away or forward, Sherlock wasn't sure, but he had his suspicions— when the outside door opened and one Martha Hudson waltzed in, bright smile to match a bright disposition. It did wonders for destroying the mood, whatever it had been.

John jerked away with a start, his eyes pivoting around and catching on Mrs. Hudson; his face flushed a brilliant red as she turned to meet his eyes, a wide, surprised, smile flitting across her lips.  
  
“Oh! Finally out of the flat, I see!” she said appreciatively, her eyes lingering on John before switching to Sherlock—and then to the bag cast away on the stairs. Her smile softened, melted, and her eyes returned to John, surveying his red-rimmed gaze. “Oh. _Oh_. Going somewhere, John?”

John looked away from both of them at the question, looking at the suitcase that lay tilted a few steps down, and swallowed, visibly struggling for an answer. Before he had to think too long, Sherlock cut in, drawing John's attention to him again. "No, Mrs. Hudson, I believe he isn't. We had a... bit of a communication issue, is all."

“Ah—a bit of a domestic, then.” Mrs. Hudson seemed relieved and her smile returned, although it was softer than before. She brushed her hands across her abdomen, smoothing her sundress. “Well. I'll just leave you two to work things out—“ she stepped toward the adjoining hallway but then lingered, casting them a deliberate look and adding, “Just not on the stairs, boys.” 

John pursed his lips, something creeping up his throat, a hard knot moving through him. A moment later, she disappeared, her shoes clicking against the wood before fading altogether. John's eyes had followed her retreating figure, his shoulders shaking—no longer able to swallow it down, a low, throaty chuckle reverberated through his chest. He couldn't exactly explain why he was laughing—perhaps it was the onslaught of emotion, exhaustion and adrenaline taking its toll or simply the absurdity of the situation—either way, his mouth curled into a slight, breathless smile, and he switched his eyes to Sherlock.

His grin widened fraction of a breath and he tried not to think of how foreign it must look on his face—laughter fading, both of John's eyebrows darted up as he muttered, with mock seriousness, “You heard her—not on the stairs.”

His face heated at the pun, the mood lost but far from forgotten, and he moved to his feet, stepping down to grab his luggage—Sherlock found he had rather negative feelings for that bag, but that was neither here nor there. With an answering chuckle of his own, low and rumbling and feeling wonderfully refreshing after so long, Sherlock followed him up to their flat. _Their_ flat. He had been so close to losing John, losing _home_ , that every thought was significant, every little thing was important.

"Tea?" He asked once they had entered and John had slipped his jacket off once more.

John offered him a small, fleeting smile, less strained than those that had filled the last few weeks, and managed a one-shouldered shrug, answering, “Sure.”

He felt absolutely and completely exhausted, but already he knew that being alone would be detrimental to his mental health; already his thoughts were a rushing blur of movement again, the turmoil in his mind having picked up its previous fervor, albeit in a sightly different direction. He thought about his day—their argument—and the following conversation, picking it apart and holding it under a magnifying glass with such scrutiny that nothing remained whole or good or intact. He could feel his strangely good mood slipping through his fingers as he put his jacket away. 

Sherlock nodded at John's affirmative and set off to the kitchen to get started. He heard John follow him there, but didn't turn from where he was filling the kettle with water. He needed some time to think, too. There was a lot to process, countless combinations of different feelings and innumerable variations of the same emotions, too many to compartmentalize in his brain. He was sorely unprepared for this, and there were not enough rooms in his mind palace to fit what he was experiencing.

John leaned casually against the archway leading to the kitchen, his eyes gravitating toward Sherlock to reacquaint himself with the other man's mannerisms. Sherlock was _alive._ He was there, safe, breathing and _alive,_ and maybe, just maybe, John would be someday be some semblance of okay. Maybe. He listened to the noise of movement, the whirring of water, weight shifting from the heels of Sherlock's feet to the toes—to the sounds of life. He had missed those sounds during Sherlock's absence, had missed the subtleties that told John he wasn't alone. Convinced he would never hear those sounds again, at least not from Sherlock, John had grown desperate. He had eventually purchased a rickety old CD-player that was known to malfunction, turning on at odd hours of the day or night, and stocked it with music created by famous violinists: Niccolo Paganini and Pablo de Sarasate were two of John's favorites. Of course it did little to soothe the ache Sherlock's absence created, to chase away the darkness that plagued his thoughts, but it helped fill the silence that claimed the flat—that unnerving silence, never-ending and far lonelier than it should be. He had never mentioned such habits to Sherlock upon his return; he had simply tucked the CD-player away in his closet, hiding it much like he tried hiding his cracks. Eventually, John stirred and sat down at the kitchen table.

It was the creak of the chair that pulled Sherlock out of his reverie. The warmth he felt from knowing John was _right there_ was enough to wash away the feelings of inadequacy slowly smothering him. He would figure it out. John would help him figure it out. Because wasn't that what he always did? His conductor that was always more light himself than a carrier of it.

The whistle of the kettle snapped him back to the task at hand and he pulled out two mugs from the cupboard— the memory of having to put one back when he accidentally did that in the years he spent alone ghosted over him, making him all too aware that that had almost been the case again. Letting the tea steep for a while, Sherlock turned with both cups and sat beside John, half facing him half next to him as he was sitting at the head of the table. He sat there for a fraction, then jumped back up again.

"Milk," he muttered, rushing to the fridge and pushing a tray of spleens out of the way to reach the jug of milk and bringing it to the table, along with some sugar. "There," he said, almost proudly. Who ever said he couldn't bee helpful on occasion?

John offered him a slight smile, dragging his eyes from the many chemical burns and scuff marks littering their table and to Sherlock, his fingers idly brushing a particularly vivid mark.

“Thank you.”

He wondered if Sherlock realized just how much he _had_ changed—if he had deciphered the reasons behind many of his new behaviors. Most revolved around Sherlock, around ways to remember him or comfort himself with said memories; for instance, John no longer drank his tea with milk or coffee sugarless—no, instead, he added two teaspoons of sugar to each cup, a behavior mirroring Sherlock's. And so, adding a deliberate amount of sugar to his tea, John's eyes watched the steam roll from the cup, silence blanketing them, far less awkward than before.

John knew that their journey would be difficult—more difficult than it had been, even, but hopefully, if he could force himself to communicate and remember that need to, things would start to look up. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, John's flicker of optimism seemed less tarnished and more radiant.

Sipping his tea after blowing over the top, Sherlock watched John watch his cup. Silence stretched between them, not awkward but tired, too much effort required for talking, and both of them feeling as if they had confessed far too much today. They quietly drank their tea, Sherlock's eyes alternating from John's face to his hands, arms, fingers, neck. John's eyes lost in the wisps of heat dancing up from his cup, occasionally sliding to the table, and sometimes to Sherlock with a tiny twitch of a smile—as if he needed to ground himself again, fixing Sherlock's presence in his mind. Minutes ticked by and once they were done, Sherlock got up and took their cups to the sink, turning to look at John from the counter.

"Maybe…" the detective didn't want to bring it up but then again he really did. "You should unpack. I can help you take the bag upstairs if you'd like."

The corners of John's mouth twitch into a slight smile. He wondered if Sherlock worried that he would rethink his decision. Pushing to his feet, John nodded.

“Yeah,” he replied, offering Sherlock a small, almost reassuring smile. “I should—but it's fine. I've got it.”

He walked across the sitting room and grabbed his luggage, hesitating before walking upstairs. He had the almost overwhelming urge to ask Sherlock to follow him, to stay where he could see him, but he forced it down. Communication was one thing—but John didn't want to be so desperately needy. He started upstairs with his luggage, a weight forming in his stomach as he moved into his room and tossed the bag onto the bed.

Sherlock watched as John disappeared up the stairs and stood there by the table for a while before moving to the living room. He looked at his chair but a ghost uneasiness washed over him and he rerouted to the couch instead. He hoped the events of the afternoon, and what he had felt sitting in that chair—what he'd almost let happen—wouldn't put him off of it too much. He rather liked it, just not right then. Sprawling over the sofa and closing his eyes, Sherlock concentrated on the sounds drifting from upstairs. It was a lovely inversion of the ones he had heard earlier. The same ones, in the opposite direction. Backwards. Six steps to the left, the rolling hinges of the closet door. The squeak of the bed springs, the slide of hangers as John put the clothes back _in_. These sounds were music to his ears, not a torture like the ones before them. These were the sounds of John _staying_. With a smile and a sigh of pure contentment, Sherlock's breathing began to slow and his body to melt into the cushions, as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness with the knowledge John would still be there when he woke up.

John busied himself with unpacking, focusing on each movement as if it were a lifeline, a shield to ward off inevitably dark thoughts. Even though things seemed to be looking up—even though John felt a bit more human, a bit better, he knew that such feelings were temporary. Even then, he distrusted whatever happiness or optimism he experienced. It would disappear. It always did. Especially in moments like that, when he was alone, with only his own devices to distract him. Unpacking took a bit longer than packing had but, too soon, John had finished, tucking his luggage back in its proper spot in the closet. His eyes caught on the abandoned CD-player and the knot that had gradually built in his stomach seemed to quiver at the sight. It was nothing more than a reminder, then, a shadow borne from Sherlock's absence.

He turned away, pulling the closet doors closed, and fell onto his bed. Kicking his shoes off, John flipped to his side, his eyes on his bedroom door. A part of him was more than slightly tempted to rush downstairs and remind himself that Sherlock was alive—but another part of him told him that this was a two-way street, that he needed to be strong for himself, too. The part of him that told him this was ill-tempered and black, the part that reminded him of what happened the last time he relied on Sherlock too heavily.

And so he remained where he was, focusing on each breath, each rise-and-fall of his chest until exhaustion overtook him, his eyes falling shut.

A cool wind caressed his face, leaves dancing across the path in front of him in glittering golds and reds; tucking his hands into either jacket pocket, John kept his eyes on the ground as he walked. A few steps later, the path disappeared, hidden under gnarled branches and thick underbrush. Only then did John observe his surroundings, panic swelling in his chest as he turned, pivoted on his heel to find himself trapped in heavy chaparral. Before he could fully make sense of his surroundings, the ground lurched and the undergrowth parted to reveal a headstone. He didn't need to look at its name to know whose grave it was—and yet John's eyes gravitated toward it, tracing the thinly etched letters with dark eyes. _Sherlock Holmes._ John stepped forward once, then twice, but the tombstone kept its distance—finally he was running, overwhelmed with the desire to say his goodbye. His lungs ached and the forest grew dark.

The tombstone disappeared from sight, the thicket absorbing dark granite, and John let out a string of curse words. His foot caught on an uprooted vine and he fell forward, spilling toward the ground—before the impact, his surroundings changed. The ground flipped and suddenly, John was staring up at the sky as his back hit asphalt. Pain shot through him and he let out a low groan, scrambling upright as a body spiraled toward him, their person wrapped in a whirl of black fabric. John struggled to his feet, familiarity washing over him. Sherlock. _Sherlock_ —he rushed forward as his body neared the pavement and then there was a thickening crunch as his descent came to its end—pain shot through him again, a searing, electric pain, and John's knees buckled from its weight.

He awoke with a gasp.

Sometimes, Sherlock dreamt. It wasn't every time he slept, not that he did regularly, but it happened. Mostly, it was fractured scenes and abstract imagery, no connection or coherence. Just a jumble of data trying to slot into the right compartments of his mind palace. But sometimes it was different, and he could recognize what he saw. This was one of those times. It began innocently enough, just images flying by, like developed film pictures, as he stood in a deserted beach. Then, he could reach out and touch them, and they became fluid, waving and wrapping around him, pulling him into the depicted scene. There was John, strapped to a bomb. John, arms around Moriarty's neck, telling him to run. John sitting in his armchair, listening to him play the violin. John, broken but trying so hard to stay strong, standing in front of a gravestone, covering his tears with a trembling hand. John, trembling hand on the handle of a suitcase, looking defeated and so very _done_. John, telling him he needed him. John, giving a loud gasp as he—

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at the noise that filtered down to him from the room upstairs. He had always been a light sleeper, more so in the time he had spent alone, and the noise had him on immediate alert. Standing absolutely still for a moment, every ounce of his considerable focus on the sounds above, Sherlock's stomach plummeted when he heard the long, shuddering breath that sounded more like a suppressed sob float down to him. He was up and climbing up the stairs before his brain had consciously made the decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, we would like to thank those of you that have read, commented, or left kudos!


	4. To Hinder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note from Magickbeing: I would really like to apologize for the delay—I was really hoping to have this chapter posted Friday, but things got a bit hectic and I only just finished proofing it. As always, I'd like to apologize for what ever mistakes I haven't caught.
> 
> And a note from the both of us—thank you for reading, commenting and leaving kudos! The support is so encouraging and wonderful for motivation! <3

John darted into a sitting position, hands tangled in his duvet; trembling fingers clenched the thick fabric tightly, pressing it into his palm as if his life depended on such a grip. He drew in a sudden, loud breath, opening his eyes to stare blearily into his room—but it wasn't his room that he saw. When he looked to the nearest wall, it was St. Bart's that he saw, with its many windows glittering under an overcast sky, silently mocking him; when he looked to the end of his bed, it was the line of the sidewalk, the curb just before—just before—John drew in another sharp breath and forced it out with as much force. The breath sounded ragged, nothing more than a wet, choked sort of sob. He squeezed his eyes shut and fell back onto the bed, forcing himself to loosen his hold on the duvet to press shaking hands against either eye. Spots of light danced across his vision, chasing away his memories, but the burning in his lungs only intensified.

He was unaware of Sherlock reaching the top of the stairs, hesitating just in front of the closed door—did he knock? Did he open it slowly? Did he speak through it or wait for John to let him in? Sherlock decided on a bit of a mix; he knocked twice before opening it a crack, asking, “John, are you alright?”

John startled, visibly flinching, and turned his eyes to the door itself, gaze catching on the man peering in. He grappled with his composure, wishing for the ability to lie, to say that he was just _fine_ when he was anything but—but the words wouldn't come. Instead, his body betrayed him and another sob climbed up his throat and pushed through his lips. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth in an attempt to silence further noises, but it was too late—John's answer was clear.

And it was all the answer Sherlock needed to open the door all of the way and walk into the darkened room. There was something in John that wanted to scream at him, to tell him to go away, to insist that he was fine when that so obviously wasn't the case. This was _his_ hell to deal with, not Sherlock's—his burden to bear and his alone. He hated feeling so weak, so _pathetic_ around other people, around Sherlock—especially Sherlock. It didn't matter that they both knew a fair amount of the blame laid across Sherlock's shoulders, that it was more than partially his fault John was so broken. However, there was something more powerful in John that wanted to reacquaint himself with his detective's presence for the dozenth time that day. It was that something that gravitated toward Sherlock, wanted him as near as physically possible and as frequently as possible.

The curtains had been drawn and the weakening light of dusk barely peeped around the thick fabric; through the dying light, Sherlock moved—no, _glided—_ his skin taking on an ethereal sort of glow. John watched, fixated, as Sherlock, without giving it much of a second thought, or a first for that matter, walked to the bed and sat on the edge beside him. It was like a switch turned every time he heard John in distress. He needed to make it go away, like a compulsion, like John's emotional turmoil was a stain he _had_ to wipe clean. His own personal brand of OCD.

Peering at the doctor's face in the fading light, he tried to determine if John was aware enough that it wouldn't be dangerous to touch him. He didn't particularly want a repeat of the time he tried to wake John from one of his more violent nightmares and had received a black eye for his troubles. His fault, really. Not John's, never John's. He should have known better. Looking at the moist irises looking back at him with fear and pain but definite recognition, Sherlock reached a hand out and took hold of the fist John had pressed against his mouth.

"It's okay, John," he whispered, lowering the hand and bringing his other up to close around the doctor's shoulders. "It's okay."

His body relaxed almost instantly under Sherlock's touch. He shifted, pulling his hand away from his mouth, and wrapped his fingers around a thin wrist. He could feel the thrum of life pulsating beneath pale skin, coursing through Sherlock with an automatic haste, his heartbeat strong and steady. The weight pressing against him became more manageable. John managed a nod and cleared his throat, blinking frantically against his tears. He refused to cry twice that day—especially in front of Sherlock. Swallowing hard, John muttered, “I know.”

Sherlock rubbed his hand down John's shoulder and back, shifting closer, similar to how he had done in the stairs what seemed like so long ago, but couldn't have been more than three hours. He felt John relax under his palm and twitching fingers wrap around his other wrist, and Sherlock twisted and closed his own fingers around John's wrist in turn. The pulse was rapid there, but not alarmingly so, and it seemed to be slowing.

Not sure what else to say, but knowing he should speak, Sherlock asked, a bit unsure, "Would you like to talk about it?"

He shifted a bit closer and turned his body to rest his back against the headboard, now beside John instead of in front of him, arm stretched over John's shoulders to pull him closer.

Sherlock's fingers were cool against John's wrist, but not uncomfortably so. John looked to their hands for a moment before shifting a bit, eyes flicking up to meet his. He was hesitant to take his offer and yet the offer itself spoke volumes; Sherlock was really trying. The sentiment was there, loud and clear, and a piece of John felt more than slightly guilty about doubting it before. Despite himself, perhaps, Sherlock cared.

John lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug, his gaze moving past Sherlock and focusing on the far wall. There were no windows this time—simply a wall, plain and covered with shadows.

“There's not much to talk about,” he muttered quietly. He shifted into a sitting position, propping himself further up so that he, too, was resting his back against the headboard, his body naturally leaning into the warmth beside him. “I... forget sometimes.”

A crease formed between his brow, pieces of his nightmare drifting through the darkness and flitting through his mind. Sherlock could see the conflict in his eyes. He could tell John was hesitant about telling him more and he didn't push. John would open up in his own time and tell him if he wanted to. As long as the doctor talked and worked through it, letting Sherlock help as much—or little, really—as he could, it was fine.

“It's worse when I'm sleeping,” John continued, his thumb brushing across the back of Sherlock's hand. The contact tickled Sherlock pleasantly, and he responded by splaying his fingers over John's bicep, then alternating between spreading and gathering them close, creating a subtle caress he hoped wouldn't bother his friend. John's eyes switched down to the pale hand that stirred against his bicep for a single moment, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smile. He turned his eyes back to the furthest wall and pressed on, more comforted by the gesture than Sherlock perhaps knew. That was nice—better than nice. Sherlock's touch was helping him far more than even John would have liked to admit; it helped ground him, remind him that the other man was there, and comforted him in ways he had been unable to fathom until then. “Sometimes it's just flashbacks—other times it's—“ he stopped, nose wrinkling in thought, “—symbolic, I guess.”

John's expression softened. He was hesitant to tell Sherlock the exact details f his nightmare, as if retelling them would cause him to relive them, would give them some sort of strength or power or reality that they otherwise lacked. A moment of silence stretched between them before John looked to Sherlock and said, “Thank you—for checking on me, coming up here. That was... nice.”

Sherlock gave a small smile, then looked at the curtained window with a lofty tilt of his chin.

“Well, I _am_ known for being nice,” he stated in mock seriousness, waiting a beat to look back down at John's face and erupting into low giggles.

Melting into Sherlock further yet, John glanced at his friend, a slow smile consuming his lips; he scoffed, the sound of Sherlock's laugh causing the corners of his smile to stretch higher. He was unable to remember the last time he had heard that deep, throaty chuckle—his depression had been harder on his detective than he had noticed, apparently, acting like a fog that settled across the flat to deprive hem of happiness or light. He chuckled and nodded, his eyes focused on Sherlock's.

“You have your moments,” John countered, his smile becoming softer.

Laughter ebbing, but smile staying put, Sherlock met John's eyes. It felt good to laugh. It felt good to look at John. It felt good to see him smile, to feel how well he fit in his arms. His stomach sunk suddenly, a small drop that was more a contraction than anything, and his hands froze. He looked at John from so close, taking in the shine that lingered in the whites of his eyes, the pink tint that refused to fade from under his eyelashes, the evidence of his pain, no little amount caused by him. Still now. And yet here he was, smiling, soft and thankful, and Sherlock felt so incredibly undeserving all of a sudden that he almost stood and walked away in shame. How dare he share this moment of healing with the person he'd broken? His smile slipped from his face to be replaced by a crease between his eyebrows, a half wince that pinched the corners of his eyes. "You deserve more than _moments_ , John."

John's expression softened to mirror Sherlock's, his smile melting, although there were faint lines around either eye that expressed his happiness. Sherlock looked strangely troubled, worried, and John struggled to decipher the cause of his expression, his eyes flitting across his face.

Sherlock knew that he should look away, move away, stay away, but didn't have the strength to do it. No, he wanted in all his selfishness to stay with John— _so close_ —but let him know he was sorry, that the doctor deserved better. A last half-hearted attempt to make him see reason, while praying he wouldn't. And he knew he wouldn't, John, see reason and leave. He was too good for that, had already forgiven his innumerable shortcomings. He would stay with Sherlock at the risk of getting hurt again, God knew why, and he would _smile_. Smile and hold Sherlock's wrist and be so close. So close that Sherlock could see the dark wisps of gray framing his pupil, the light brown stray hair that didn't quite fit his left eyebrow. So close that Sherlock could see all of the pores of his face, how the dimple was just a bit higher in his right cheek when he smiled, the solitary freckle right above it.

He met John's eyes and it was then that John, too, became aware of _just_ how close they were. With his face turned toward Sherlock's, he could feel the faint wisps of warm breath against his skin, slow exhales caressing his forehead and brow. He could see each darkened pore along his jaw and mouth, faint traces of a not-quite-five-o-clock-shadow, and the small freckles sprinkled across the apples of his cheeks and along the curve of either eye. It was his eyes that demanded John's attention, however; he had noticed, on more than one occasion, that Sherlock's irises seemed to reflect his surroundings or mood, changing color on what appeared to be whim. A pale olive when troubled, with rings of gold around either pupil—a bright cerulean when thoughtful or focused, with touches of silver weaving throughout blue—an almost emerald lovat when mischievous, with flares of copper near either pupil—a faded citrine when bored. Right then, as cliché as it was, his eyes reminded John of an ocean, a dark sea-green with touches of emerald and gold. He struggled to attach the color with an emotion.

If Sherlock was anyone but, well, Sherlock, John would have welcomed the logical conclusion—that he was worried that he was too brisk or too distant or too detached, that he didn't appreciate his friend enough or, rather, didn't show it—but he _was_ Sherlock and such sentiment seemed unfitting. Sherlock had always marched to his own beat which, while occasionally annoying, was utterly endearing. It showed strength, courage—it was exciting and different and _Sherlock,_ and John wouldn't change him for the world. John's eyes dropped to his mouth as Sherlock said, “You deserve everything.”

It was nothing more than a whisper before he leaned in and touched his lips to the space between John's nose and mouth, bottom lip grazing the side of John's upper one.

There was an audible hitch of breath as Sherlock's lips touched his skin and it would be easy, so easy to tilt his face up a fraction of a breath and claim his mouth with his, but the fluttering in John's stomach prevented any movement. And so he remained where he was, blinking slowly, his eyes remaining closed for a moment longer than usual, before opening and refocusing on Sherlock. Sherlock had a fleeting moment of panic when John didn't immediately respond and he pulled away after a breath, searching the slowly blinking eyes. His expression wasn't one of disgust or anger, which was encouraging, but it seemed petrified and unsure, which was not. About to apologize and excuse himself from the whole situation with as much dignity as he could, Sherlock was interrupted by the whisper that he felt more than heard against his lips.  
  
“I already have it,” John replied softly, his voice as quiet as Sherlock's had been, reply revealing far more than he had planned. His heart was beating frantically against his ribs and his thoughts were suddenly unclear but somehow racing; he inhaled sharply, suddenly, and pressed his lips together. He swallowed hard, his grip tightening around Sherlock's wrist for a fraction of an instant, his body steadying itself with his heartbeat.

The increased pressure around his wrist reassured Sherlock. The strange and somewhat disquieting sensation that his insides were liquifying made his heart rate spike, and he felt lightheaded. That was when the fingers around his wrist tightened, warm and reassuring, real and steady and not in expectance of a miracle or confirmation of loss, but reaffirmation of life. A pulse against another, two hearts that had never quite beat in synch with the rest of the world, but beat out of synch together, a note following the next to create their own song.

John was wrong. He didn't _have_ everything. He _was_.

Giving an answering squeeze of John's wrist, which caused the corners of John's mouth to twitch, faint lines appearing along its edges, a barely-visible smile, Sherlock shook his head in bewilderment.

"You are.”

The inner edges of John's eyebrows twitched at those two words, mind unable to make the connection. Not sure if John could understand, not sure he understood himself, Sherlock flexed his arm where John's head was resting and brought him closer, lips pressing softly against his.

Third time was the charm.

John's breath caught in his throat, a surge of anticipation rushing through him just before their lips met, and this time, his body answered Sherlock's call. He tilted his face to press their lips more firmly together, a rush of cool air passing through his body, a shiver skipping down each vertebrae. His eyes slipped shut and he found himself leaning into Sherlock, feeling very much as if he could breathe Sherlock in then, use their connection as a balm for frayed nerves. John's lips shifted against Sherlock's and John kissed him with a slow, gentle sort of fervor, pouring everything he felt into that single, small movement—all of the things he had been too much of a coward to say, all of his hopes and desires and dreams, all of which were about or involved Sherlock.

It was two and a half seconds since the initial pressing of lips when Sherlock realized he didn't know what he needed to do next. Still, it was brilliant. Despite his own inexperience, John knew what to do. The doctor melted into his touch with a delightful little shiver, mouth puckering slightly to press against his, seams fitting into the fleshy bits of lips, slotting together as if they had been made for it. John's lips moved slowly, parting slightly before closing again over Sherlock's own, moving them with their motions, and Sherlock allowed himself to be guided, breath sucked from his lungs and into John's mouth. He was getting lost in the feelings, lost in the contrast between the rough shadow of John's chin and the soft warmth of his lips, when he felt the doctor tense and pull away. Sherlock's movements seemed too hesitant to John and something else rushed through him, hot and unwanted, and his eyes darted open to search for the regret that he was sure to find.

With the gasp of a man waking from a dream to harsh wooden floor, Sherlock snapped his eyes open and looked at the wide blue eyes inches from his face. Ah. Right. There it was. The shock, the _doubt_ , the mistake in John's eyes. He turned his head before he saw the regret and shame. Color rising to his face, Sherlock drew in on himself, tensing and removing his hands from John, suddenly cold in all the places they had been touching. John folded into himself automatically, recoiling much like Sherlock had. Doubt screamed at him, injecting itself into his heart and thoughts. Sherlock was just trying to be nice, he realized; as uncharacteristic as it seemed, it was the only conclusion borne from all of the facts. Sherlock was trying to help him in what ever way he could and it had to be obvious, so obvious, what John really wanted: him. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all, and John was hardly a difficult person to read to begin with—all of the signs were there, he knew, written across his expression, vivid and clear. Sherlock had tried to give John what he wanted, what he needed, and John supposed that that was more than he had ever expected. Knowing that he should be grateful, however, did not lessen the sting of the rejection that cropped up and invaded his every thought. He drew his knees up, closer to his body and core as if the action itself could protect him, draw his walls up again, safe, and intact, and unbroken. Splotches of color blossomed across the high-spots of his cheeks and along his jaw, angry red marks that spoke of his humiliation. The way Sherlock pulled away, retracted—it was as if he was disgusted. John swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean—I'm sorry," Sherlock hastily apologized, helpless embarrassment and humiliation twisting in his gut, and stood from the bed, still not meeting John's eyes. "I'll just.. leave you to rest, then."

John blanched, his eyes switching to his duvet. His fingers curled around the thick fabric once more and he twisted it in his grip, jaw clenching. He tried offering Sherlock a faint smile, a silent _thank you for trying,_ but it appeared to be no more than a pained grimace. This was all of his fault, of course—for being so broken, so needy. He had never meant to make Sherlock feel obligated and yet, there he was, doing just that. His eyes returned to his duvet and he nodded, sucking his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“Y-yeah,” he muttered, voice thick with embarrassment. He cleared his throat. “Okay.”

His gaze flicked to Sherlock and he opened his mouth, the words hesitating before pushing past parted lips. “Sherlock?” At the call of his name, Sherlock turned from where he was standing a few steps from the door. His eyes roamed over John's posture, hunched and defensive, as if protecting hims—

God, he was protecting himself from Sherlock. Did he think— no. No, he wouldn't think Sherlock would… _force_ him to do anything, would he? A wave of nausea suddenly washed over him. He thought about how he had pulled John to him, how it had always been him who had initiated it, who had moved closer, kissed his cheek, kissed his lips. Twice. Had John accepted that last attempt out of pity for his insistence? Had he considered it returning Sherlock's favor of checking up on him? No, that seemed ludicrous, John would never be that daf—

“You don't... you don't need to apologize.” John pursed his lips together. “I mean—it's fine. I... understand.”

Those last two words brought Sherlock's train of thought to a screeching halt.

John _understood_. He didn't have to apologize. It's fine. _It's all fine_ , the echo of that night so long ago reverberated in his brain and everything clicked. John's lips moving against his, the way he relaxed, not _tensed_ , when Sherlock kissed him. _I don't want to go—I need you—I already have it—I_ understand.

No, John most definitely did _not_ understand.

John let out a slow, shuddering sort of breath, and attempted another smile; its strain was apparent but it looked to be less of a grimace than before. He wanted desperately to reach out, to extend his arm and allow his fingers to wrap around a lithe wrist again, but he knew better than to push himself on Sherlock so. Even if he couldn't have exactly what he wanted, John knew he could find contentment in what he did have—Sherlock's friendship. That would just have to be enough. His fingers tightened further around his duvet, clenching it tightly to trembling palms.

“Really. It's fine,” John added.

There was a slight tremor to his voice, his body betraying him, and John quickly looked away again, the color along his cheeks and jaw intensifying. He knew without looking that Sherlock would continue his path to the door, that he would leave. Tendrils of panic wrapped themselves around his heart, icy and somehow burning, and John swallowed against the sensation. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, unblinkingly staring at the end of his bed, studying the way the shadows played against his duvet.

"You idiot,” Sherlock muttered.

John was defensive. Retreated into himself. Of _course_ he was. But not for the reasons Sherlock had thought. _Idiots_ , the both of them. Mind whirling back to the events of the day, to John's actions and words, and hovering specifically over what had just taken place, Sherlock went over each detail in his head, deconstructing.

John had almost left. He'd been packed and ready, but still wavered, looking to Sherlock to make him stay. He _wanted_ to stay, said so himself. It took John's breaking, and his own, for Sherlock to realize it. Once he had, once they both had, they did the only English thing to do. Ignored the issue and drank tea. Again, it took John's distress for Sherlock to open up, hold him and let him see his feelings, let _himself_ see them and actually _act_ on them. It was terrifying, and wonderful, and so unbelievable he fooled himself into doubting it. John had pulled away. He had tensed and pulled away and Sherlock had read it all wrong. _Why_ the doctor had pulled back he didn't quite know, but his consequent actions spoke volumes. Volumes he was only just thinking clearly enough to hear.

John had his knees pulled up to his chest, a guarded position he had taken _only_ after Sherlock had stood. The doctor's cheeks had flared, bright and warm with _embarrassment_ , pupils still dilated. Irritation and anger contracted them. No disgust, then. Shame, perhaps? Shame went hand in hand with embarrassment, could cause the blushing, but it also hinted at repulsion, and John's eyebrows had that distinctive _tilt_ , angling upwards where they came together, that would be lacking had he felt repelled. It spoke of anguish rather than outrage. His eyes were wide, focused downward but wide and unblinking, not narrowed in contempt. Everything about him was centered inwards, not to reject but to protect. Sherlock had thought it was protection against _him_ , against another unwanted advance, but no. No, he had responded, he had _kissed back_. Shock would have rendered him immobile, surprise would have tensed him. He had relaxed and reciprocated, even inclined his face for better access. And it had been _brilliant_. But somewhere along the way, a thought had occurred in that perplexing blond head of his, and he had pulled back. Sherlock, naturally — _idiot!_ — had imagined the worse, had ignored the signs, read doubt as regret and shut himself off. Had it not been for those two little words — _I understand_ — Sherlock would have kept on walking, out the door and down the stairs, forever turning his back on the chance to have everything.

John could have pulled away because he realized his mistake in kissing Sherlock, because he was ashamed of his actions, because he was _not actually gay_. All plausible —even in the face of his body's reactions the mind could still hold on to denial and make him regret it. The regret was not less real because of it. Yes, all plausible. Except… that phrase didn't fit any of them. John _understood_. There was nothing to understand had it been his own choice, his own turmoil. It certainly wasn't something John would feel the need to assure himself aloud that _he understood_. No. He was assuring _Sherlock_. Why, then, assure Sherlock that he understood the reasons for ending their kiss, if those reasons had been his own? Did he expect Sherlock to turn and say 'congratulations, you _understand_ your own mind'? That was ludicrous. That didn't _fit_. The one piece that changed the whole puzzle.

John was reacting to rejection. _Sherlock's_ rejection. He was reassuring Sherlock that he didn't need to apologize, that he _understood_ why Sherlock was rejecting _him_. Not the other way around. Somewhere along the line, John —delusional, _absurd_ John—had thought Sherlock didn't want him. Of course, scrambling off the bed as if something had burned him —something _had_ , if only emotionally—hadn't helped matters. But it had been a circle of misunderstandings, both of them thinking they had been denied, that colored their reactions and only fueled their confusion. _Idiots_.

Dangerous to jump to conclusions without all the data, indeed.

John's eyes pivoted toward him, confusion flashing across his face: eyebrows drawn together, mouth turning into a slight frown. It wasn't the words themselves that surprised John. Sherlock had called him an idiot on more than one occasion. It was his timing. As usual, the words were spoken in a way that told John he was missing something—something obvious. Always obvious with Sherlock. He could see the familiar flit and flicker of Sherlock's eyes as he thought, surveying him in a way that John had once found completely unnerving and utterly fascinating—the latter of which hadn't been lost, even then—and unable to make the connection himself, John pursed his lips together in a sort of puckered scowl and asked, “Why now?”

An eternity of silence seemed to stretch between them. Despite his humiliation, John kept his eyes on Sherlock, almost entranced by the continuing process of connections visibly forming.

"You understand," Sherlock answered at last, taking a step towards the bed. "You _understand_ , John. Do you see? No, of course you don't. _What_ do you understand, John?" He took another step, then another. "Why I was about to leave? Why I stood up in the first place? No, I am sure you _don't_ understand. Because what you think you understand didn't even happen in the first place!" He waved his hands around in frustration, heart hammering in joy at realizing his mistake. It was a heady combination, and it came out in a breathless chuckle. John set his jaw, chuffed, unable to see what, _exactly,_ was so amusing. Confusion quickly pushed itself to the forefront of his mind, his eyes narrowing, mouth puckering into a slight scowl as he thought—tried to make the connection Sherlock so clearly wanted him to. It was an easy behavior to fall into, less painful than his humiliation an shame, and so John _thought._

"You are an _idiot_ , and so am I," Sherlock continued, now at the edge of the bed, and his voice and expression softened as he kneeled on the mattress, eyes never leaving John's bewildered face. He seemed almost _pleased_. John's scowl intensified, becoming less thoughtful and more indignant, pieces of his doubt and humiliation inserting themselves into his mind. His eyes searched Sherlock's; his irises had melted into a brilliant cerulean again, although flares of emerald and sea-green had lingered.

"Now I am going to do what _detectives_ do. I am going to ask the right questions. John," Sherlock looked intently at the wide blue eyes, a wild fear that he had been wrong in his deductions suddenly jabbing at his heart, "why did you pull away when I kissed you?"

John let out a slow, deliberate breath, the splotches of color along his jaw darkening. Sherlock could see the different kinds of frowns—John had many—that flitted through the other man's face and his mouth twitched, wanting to smile but knowing it wouldn't be received well.

John had not yet mastered the art of deduction and, quite frankly, doubted he ever would, but some body language was so obvious that even someone like _him_ could pick up on it. Experience told him that if someone didn't kiss back, there was a reason; it was nearly a sure sign that they didn't _want_ to, be it borne from hesitance, uncertainty, or a simple lack of interest. He had never known Sherlock to be hesitant or uncertain about _anything_ —or, rather, if he was, he hid it well—and so the latter seemed to be the obvious conclusion. Obvious. Too obvious, maybe.

John's expression faltered and he answered, slowly, “You weren't kissing back.”

When the answer came, Sherlock tried, he really, _really_ tried not to roll his eyes, but they turned up and to the side of their own accord. When they rotated back down to John, he was speaking again, pressing on to say, “Experience tells me there's a reason for that—and it's fine—you don'tneed to feel obligated to, well—“ John stopped, his fingers becoming slack around his duvet and lifting to make a dismissive sort of movement between their bodies. He swallowed hard. “It's fine.”

For a moment, Sherlock basked in the knowledge that it _was_ fine. He hadn't made a mistake in his conclusion that John had only misinterpreted his actions. And, if he was honest with himself, which he often tried to be, he was also enjoying being in the know—feeling he knew something John didn't, if only because he got to enlighten him, and that shouldn't feel as good as it did, but he couldn't help it. It was a unique sharing of his mind, a voluntary bestowment of his thoughts where a part of him, a conclusion reached by him, would be kept by John and internalized inside his own mind. Neural pathways would be added to his brain to connect with Sherlock's own deduction, assimilate it and absorb it as if it was his own. It was almost a piece of art, similar to how a painter mixed colors to create a new one, how each stroke contributed to the whole picture. It was similar to how each thread joined with the other to make a quilt; Sherlock knitted his thoughts and gave them to John, and nothing would take that away because John would weave his own threads, and then it would in his psyche, _his_ , and it was _Sherlock's_ to give him. Part of him and then part of them both, colored with John's unique point of view, and new, and wonderful.

Sherlock didn't think John would understand, wasn't sure he really understood himself. He knew John wouldn't appreciate being in the dark just a little while longer, however, so he let himself smile and finally explained.

"John," Sherlock started, unable to help the small scoff that escaped him. They had been _ridiculous._ John's frown returned at he sight of his smile and the sound of his scoff, but it soon faltered. There was something about the way that his name rolled from Sherlock's tongue that made his stomach flutter and flip. Sherlock continued. "I don't know how to kiss. I…" he trailed off and a sudden wave of embarrassment hit him completely out of the blue; he choked on his words. John's eyebrows darted up in surprise as white, hot inadequacy surged through Sherlock—a grown man who didn't know how to kiss, _freak_ indeed, what would John think?—and Sherlock had to force himself to continue, feeling the foreign warmth creeping up his neck and face. All of his determination didn't stop him from looking away, though.

"I didn't know what to do. _That's_ why I didn't kiss you back. I was… trying to let you guide me." He cleared his throat and looked back at John. "Sorry," came out with a tilt of his chin and an air of defiance that couldn't quite cover the plead in his eyes. _Please don't judge me._

John quickly thought of everything that had happened, played the moment in his mind, and those before it. The soft kiss to his cheek, to his upper lip—hesitant. Uncertain—but most certainly a sign of interest. He almost laughed at his sheer idiocy, but there was something in the way that Sherlock was looking at him that kept the chuckle from processing, from pushing itself from his gut and into his lungs and throat. He swallowed thickly, forehead smoothing, the corners of his mouth quirking into a slow-consuming smile.

Sherlock was _never_ uncertain. _Ever_. And so John's eyes swept across his flushed face, drinking in the color, before flicking back up to his. There wasn't a single part of John that thought less of Sherlock for his admittance; he was surprised, yes, although retrospect told him that he shouldn't be, but hardly repulsed or put off. If anything, it almost seemed fitting. Sherlock was an expert in _everything_ , it seemed, except for this—sentiment. A surge of courage shot through John at the realization and his smile softened, turning apologetic. He had been a _complete_ idiot—had read the signs _all_ wrong. Sherlock didn't need to apologize. He voiced this out loud, echoing his earlier words: “Don't apologize.”

Sucking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, John fell quiet for a moment, searching for his courage.

His fingers sought out Sherlock's, then, tucking into his palm and wrapping around slender digits, surprised at how intimate such an action felt. It was then that Sherlock looked back to John. The reassurance that he didn't need to apologize relaxed him but the heat simmering just underneath his skin didn't fade, and it was at the feeling of John's hand on his, another kind of warmth spreading through him—more tingling than invasive—that he finally turned his face back to John. His voice was soft and rough around the edges, a tenderness in his smile that didn't quite match the slow ripple of _something_ in the dark blue eyes, as John muttered, “Come here, yeah?”

Giving Sherlock's fingers a gentle squeeze and a deliberate tug, he shifted his own body so that his legs were extended in front of him, abdomen turned toward Sherlock. His other hand came up, albeit hesitantly, to rest against the curve of Sherlock's jaw, his fingers splayed out, index finger hooking along its joint, middle finger pressed gently to the hollow spot behind his ear. Such a touch to Sherlock's jaw and neck sent those inexplicable flutters he had only glimpsed at right through his skin, gooseflesh erupting all of the way to the middle of his back. John's eyes _sparked_ , adding to the electricity between them, and then flicked down to Sherlock's mouth for a single instant before returning to cerulean.

“Relax,” John murmured—the instruction was just as much for him as for Sherlock, a gentle reminder that they _both_ wanted this, and that in itself made it perfect. He leaned in, his lips hovering before Sherlock's for but a moment before finally, _finally_ , he closed the distance, his eyes slipping shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, the next chapter may be a bit delayed; this roleplay is still in progress and we need to write some more before we can post anything! Hopefully it won't be too long, but thank you all for understanding!


	5. To Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great news! This roleplay is officially finished—which means I (magickbeing) simply need to get a move on it and piece everything together! Provided everything goes to plan, there should be two more chapters after this.
> 
> Oh, and we've decided to up the rating! You should sort of see why in a bit. We may or may not have gotten a bit out of hand and written a dozen or more pages of smut (all of which is to come, really!).
> 
> We'd also like to thank all of you for your kind reviews and kudos and just reading it and, really, being awesome in general. If we haven't replied to your review, it's because we're too OIEHATOIHAEOTIH when we read it and sort of just flail around in your flattery. That doesn't mean we don't appreciate it! Really! Thank you all so much and we hope you enjoy this chapter!

When John's lips touched his, hesitant for a heartbeat before pressing firmly against his own, Sherlock stopped breathing, as if the pause of his biological functions could bring about a pause in time. It was much like the first kiss, but nothing at all like it, and the two contradicting thoughts crashed in his own brain and short circuited, exploding into stray signals that fizzled all the way to his fingertips. His breathing restarted in a sharp, long inhale, air softened by John's warmth and spiced by his scent—another contradiction, another burst of electricity. He momentarily feared his mind would fry from the random surges, but another movement of John's lips under his own had him convinced it would be a lovely way to die. John's hesitance seemed to melt away at the feeling of his lips pressed against his, soft and supple, and he kissed him slowly, deliberately. John's heart jumped into his throat, sparks of electricity skipping through him, originating through their connection and spiraling out; the warmth rushed through him, dancing through each limb before retracing its path and settling deep within his gut. 

Sherlock's fingertips were tingly and warm, and it seemed only logical to close the circuit, to keep any of those incredible sensations from escaping—so he brought his hands up to press against John's body, one curled over the junction between neck and shoulder—where he could graze the bare skin of his throat with his thumb—and the other mimicking John's hand on his face, but resting higher, thumb almost touching his right eye. There was a slow, strangely pleasant tingling where ever they touched, a glimmer of the certainty John had been searching for. It was the vibration of life, the confirmation of _Sherlock's_ life, and Sherlock was very much a light then, invading his core and exposing just how broken John really was—but instead of revealing his vulnerability and forcing him into shame, Sherlock seemed to lend him strength. 

John shifted closer, his other hand coming to rest against Sherlock's side, his fingers curling around the thin fabric of his shirt, drawing it toward him and pressing it to his palm. Slowly, he deepened the kiss, opening his mouth against Sherlock's and sweeping his tongue along his bottom lip. His heart had yet to slow and his breathing was ragged, uneven, but steady.

It was a curious feeling and if he didn't know better Sherlock would have sworn his stomach had punched his heart from below. It was ludicrous, of course, anatomically impossible—organs were not sentient—but he was momentarily confused with the feeling, real as anything could ever be, and froze for a moment. John stiffened, tensing under Sherlock's hand—no longer was he afraid that Sherlock was rejecting him but, rater, that he went too far, had pushed things along too quickly. Sherlock immediately pulled back to explain, not wanting a repeat of the last instance.

His expression was soft, his lips wet, and John felt his uncertainty melt away.

“My stomach punched my heart,” Sherlock clarified in a daze. “It was... curious.”

There was a flare of something else then, mild confusion pulling at John's thoughts. His eyebrows drew together at their center but Sherlock, having realized that he was making little to no sense, leaned in and used his lips to wipe the look off of John's face, before he could either laugh at him or check for any medical condition.  
  
“Do that again,” Sherlock whispered into John's mouth, words slurred and muffled by his lips, “that thing you did.”  
  
Eyelids fluttering closed, the corners of John's mouth quirked up into a slight smile; he could feel Sherlock's breath as he spoke, his words sliding into his mouth and down his throat as if they were his own. Sherlock shuffled closer, the hand that was resting on John's face sliding to curl around the back of his head, bringing him closer, and sliding long fingers over short strands of blond. Relaxing under Sherlock's touch, John made a soft, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, his own hand shifting, slipping down to brush his fingers along the curve of Sherlock's neck. He pressed his lips more firmly against Sherlock's again, sweeping his tongue along his bottom lip.

Heart hammering against his ribcage, Sherlock sighed and the reflected air made a shiver run down his spine. _Why_ he hadn't tried this before he had no idea, but he knew it wouldn't have been the way it was with anyone but John. It was chemical with him, visceral and subcutaneous, body reacting in ways only drugs had made him feel, everything clear but hazy all at once, focus so concentrated that the rest melted away in hazes of color and light. And his focus was solely on John. His fingers on Sherlock's nape, the nose pressed against his cheek, the noises vibrating across his lips, little waves of sound and heat assaulting him and making him resonate with them, tiny quivers breaking out in random parts of his body. With a rumbling moan of his own, small and surprised out of him, Sherlock followed the example of the mouth pressed to his own and opened it, giving access to the moist tongue painting slick lines across his bottom lip. A slow shiver skipped through John's body at the noise that escaped Sherlock's mouth and fell into his own; his breath hitched, a soft, whimpering sort of noise climbing his throat as if to answer. He was almost overwhelmed with the desire to be closer to Sherlock, to feel his heartbeat against his chest, his warmth melting into his own and so, unable to think of a valid reason to exercise self-restraint, John shifted closer so that he could deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping past parted lips and into a dark cavern. The invasion was foreign and welcome, something Sherlock had never quite felt, even having a tongue of his own in his mouth. He found it felt similar against his lips, teeth, and palate, but it was when he touched it with his own that the sensation differed, new and stimulating for his mind, which tried to make connections and catalog while trying to follow the movements and _feel_. It was a difficult feat, and Sherlock decided to employ brain-work to the most important task: immerse himself in the moment. Let everything be John and stop trying to simplify his perception to try and fit it into categories. It was a huge, shining sphere of _John_ and _good_ and _yes_ and he wanted to keep it that way. The tongue curled and explored and Sherlock tried to mimic it, failing and blushing under his inexperience. As John's tongue danced against Sherlock's, neurons fired frantically in his mind, his brain desperate to memorize the moment—to memorize _Sherlock,_ his taste and touch and breath and _everything_. There were a series of deliberate, exploring movements—John's tongue swirling around Sherlock's, shifting to brush along the ridges of the roof of his mouth,dragging along teeth and warm flesh—and the very unnerving sensation of his heart trying to burst from his chest. It was in that moment that John was able to forget about the last three years, to forget that he was in pieces, broken and hollow, and focus on that small, worn down part of him that tried desperately to encourage self-preservation. Sherlock encouraged that part to blossom, to draw up and out and pulsate—it was a slow process and brought with it a temporary relief. As always, Sherlock was making quick work of John, consuming his thoughts piece by piece. 

It was almost dizzying and his breath caught in his throat again, his fingers tightening around Sherlock's shirt to draw him further in. Sherlock let John draw him closer, lowering his right arm to circle around the doctor's waist to bring their bodies flush together. John felt himself—his core—spark when their bodies were pressed together, Sherlock's warmth bleeding into his own and lending him a safe-haven he had so desperately sought. John made a soft, raw noise into their kiss, his heart jumping and skipping. Two things happened in quick succession then: heat and shortness of breath and a shot of pleasure coursing through Sherlock's body, making his back arch—followed at once by fear and uncertainty and too much too soon, especially from his own body that was _stirring_ in places it hadn't before, and Sherlock gasping and breaking away, panting. 

John opened his eyes to properly look at Sherlock, simultaneously drawing in a slow, deliberate breath, his breathing slightly erratic. His eyes slipped across the length of Sherlock's face, a smile claiming his lips, breathless and genuine and _light._ Having expected a frown of confusion or exasperation, maybe even hurt, for breaking the kiss, Sherlock's eyes widened at John's smile. It was bright and affectionate and his own expression melted into an answering grin, more relieved than he cared to admit. John wasn't judging him. He still wanted him. He was still his. The thought surprised him, laying claim on John like that, but his insides rebelled at the mere thought of correcting himself. John was _his_ , to kiss and hold and touch, until the day the doctor left of his own accord. As long as John wanted him, he would have him. It seemed only fair he could have John in return. John let go of Sherlock's shirt, his hand sliding around and settling instead along Sherlock's spine; his other hand curled to the back of Sherlock's neck, fingers tracing over each notch. Now that he was this close to his detective, he had no intention of letting him go, content with savoring the moment. John's eyes focused on his, which seemed to be their usual brilliant blue, although slightly darker than usual, with flecks of olive and navy. His smile widened.

Sherlock's hand sifted through John's hair, up to the crown and on to the side of his face. He then carded his fingers through the short bangs at John's forehead, pushing them from his face and perhaps more fascinated than he should be by the way they fell back down, some sticking up at all angles and others interspersed with each other to form a beautiful mess. It wasn't difficult to imagine sparks emitting from Sherlock's fingertips; each gentle touch, exploring in its own way, sent warmth cascading through John. It assured him that this was real, that _Sherlock_ was real, and that maybe, just maybe, the events of the day had happened for a reason. It was a strangely optimistic thought and John felt himself hold onto it for dear life, draw it in and tuck it into the recesses of his heart. John's smile softened, but remained, at the way Sherlock was looking at him; John's eyes flitted across his face, lingering on his mouth, lips still damp, before returning to his eyes. John's hand dipped further down, his fingers circling along the collar of his shirt, dipping just below it to brush along warm skin, before dragging back up and along the curve of his neck. 

"John," Sherlock muttered. Daylight had long since vanished and only John's bedside lamp illuminated the two. "You don't…," his hand was still playing with John's hair, fingers exploring the shell of his ear, which elicited an audible hitch of breath from the other man and caused his eyes to become unfocused for a single instant before correcting themselves (a reaction Sherlock filed away for later reference), "… mind that I'm not-- very dexterous in this."

The corners of John's mouth pulled into a slightly wider smile. Even though it was more of a statement than a question—as was typical, really, coming from Sherlock—John found himself propelled to answer, to reassure Sherlock in what ever way he could.  
  
“It's a nice change of pace, honestly,” he muttered lightly, eyebrows raising slightly, “you know—to see you as something less than a know-it-all.” His smile was teasing, then, and a part of John wondered when he had last made such a joke or remark.

Sherlock smiled down at John's words. 

"I never claimed to know it all, only what's important," he said with mock haughtiness. John was unable to contain an eye-roll. "I'll admit I may have… miscalculated the importance of some things. But maybe you can show me?" 

This _was_ meant as a question as he brought both hands to the sides of John's face, palms against cheeks and fingers grazing both ears. John's heart seemed to do a funny little flip in reply to his question—that question consisted of so few words and yet implied so much. It implied that Sherlock wanted this—him—and that it wasn't just something passing, something to keep him entertained or John sane. 

“Looking forward to it,” John muttered in reply, pulling a face as Sherlock leaned close, pecking the tip of his nose; the bridge of his nose scrunched up, eyebrows puckering. Despite the physical reaction, there was something endearing about that action. It was just another thing that showed John that Sherlock wanted this. A moment later, Sherlock's mouth had moved further down and to his to give him a slow, lingering kiss, all lips. John moved closer, into Sherlock. Remembering his uneasiness before, the unusual feeling of not being quite enough, Sherlock added a whispered "later" to his inquiry, before pulling back only enough to separate their mouths, but keeping his forehead touching John's. _Kissing,_ he thought. _Yes, kissing was good._

John found himself unable to rid his face of its smile when they disconnected. His hand continued drawing idle designs along Sherlock's neck, stroking warm skin, fingers dancing over his pulse-point. His smile softened.

Something ached inside Sherlock at their closeness, something small and fragile and wanting, a _good_ pain. The pain of scratching an itch too hard, that mild abrasion of the skin that burned _just right._ The pain that was only a reminder of the relief it brought. It was strange and new, and Sherlock basked in it, drawing it out. It seemed both of them were content with the silence. It was strange, really—usually the silence unnerved John, his mind finding ways to fill it with less than ideal thoughts or images or _noises,_ but with Sherlock so close, he could focus on little else than him, his touch and steady breathing. His eyes slipped shut as Sherlock made a small groan in the back of his throat that turned into a sigh halfway out of his mouth and pressed a kiss to the corner of John's. Then his cheek, then his side-burn. Finally, he pressed a tiny peck to the side of John's neck, a mere touch of lips that didn't know exactly what was appropriate, but trusted the skin below them to welcome whatever they had to offer. And welcome John did: just the light brush of Sherlock's lips caused his skin to erupt into gooseflesh, his breath hitching and eyes opening. His face heated at his reaction to something so simple, but he shifted, automatically arching his neck into the contact. 

The hand against Sherlock's back stirred, mimicking the idle designs drawn on his neck.

The wild notion that he would have scorch marks in the shape of twirling patterns on his back crossed Sherlock's mind and he cuckold at the absurdity of his thoughts, how wonderful letting go of logic and sense felt. His breath ghosted over John's neck, where the pores were rising in response, and Sherlock pressed his mouth more firmly against the skin, giving a tentative suck, clumsy and strange sounding, immediately blushing and whispering a "sorry" against the damp skin. John made a soft, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat in reply, a smile painted firmly across thin lips. Sherlock was trying. He was learning. And John felt more than a bit special to be part of that process, to be the reason he _wanted_ to learn. Despite Sherlock's awkward advances, his touch occasionally clumsy and frequently tentative, the attention to John's neck felt amazing and he was aware that it showed. Sherlock continued his ministrations, eliciting a hitch of breath, more of a whimpering moan than anything else. Despite his awkward advances, John was delightfully responsive, so he twitched his hands into action and made them run over John's back and shoulder blades, the movement somewhat halted and in consisted, not anywhere near smooth, but persistent nonetheless. John's hands were running across the length of his back in turn and Sherlock could feel a sudden increase of pressure as he discovered a particularly sensitive spot. There was a gasp interrupted by John's skin in his mouth as the clever, surgeon's fingers outlined his spine, sinking and rising with each bump and hollow. It was a delightful massage, hard enough for John's nails to catch on his shirt, soft enough to leave his skin tingling for more. 

“John,” he mouthed over his flatmate's neck, sliding his mouth down to the dip at the base of his throat, flicking the tip of his tongue once there, just to measure the fit. It was not precise, but if he flattened his tongue a bit, then it fit nicely—so he did just that. 

“We fit, John,” he muttered, almost to himself. 

Those three words reinforced the innocent, almost child-like quality John felt in each of Sherlock's ministrations. John grinned, a low chuckle rumbling through his chest. The observation had been a bit uncharacteristic, but delightfully so—a nice change of pace indeed. Sherlock's hands had stopped somewhere along the way, but he began moving them again, somewhat more confident with the new-found knowledge that a part of him and a part of John matched so well. Running his hands up and down John's back twice, fingers splayed, Sherlock lowered them until he touched the hem of John's shirt. A swell of heat expanded in his lower abdomen, pulling at his insides as if contracting them to make way for it, and he suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to _touch skin._ Heart jerking almost uncomfortably, Sherlock's breathing picked up as John's touch slid further up, curling around to the nape of his neck and tangling short fingers in long hair. John could feel his shirt shift and then he was able to feel the warmth radiating from Sherlock's touch, his fingers hovering above the small of his back. He slipped his fingers past John's shirt, slowly, tips not quite reaching the tanned skin but grazing the tiny blond hairs sprinkled across his lower back. A weight formed in John's stomach, quivering in anticipation; he shifted, turning his face toward Sherlock's. Gently, deliberately, John's mouth moved to his ear, his lips brushing against its shell. He pressed a featherlight kiss there before dragging his lips further down, his tongue darting between parted lips to brush Sherlock's earlobe. A moan that didn't give enough warning for him to open his mouth died as a hum halfway up Sherlock's throat. Sherlock had never known his ear could be so sensitive. It was not designed for the sense of touch and yet it was sizzling with receptors sending all kinds of signals to his brain. The warm air from John's nose blew into his ear canal and contrasted with the moist tip of his tongue. The same air turned cold, surrounded by the heat, and it was dizzying. He had to move a hand to John's waist, finally fully touching his skin, to steady himself as John deliberately ghosted his breath across moist skin before pressing another kiss there, light and teasing.

“Hm,” he mumbled, mouth still closed, fingers curling into the soft flesh of John's side and sliding up with the same pressure, all the way to right under his armpit. A shiver skipped down John's vertebrae at the sound that hummed through Sherlock's chest, the hand against his back and side adding to the warmth that it carried. Sherlock's other hand was stretched over the middle of his back, thumb extended and fitting nicely in the crease running down along his spine. His mouth had left John's neck, hovering right over it, and so he tilted his face up to kiss the curve of John's jaw, opening his mouth in a sigh at a particularly reactive flick of tongue. John traced the length of Sherlock's ear with the tip of his tongue, gently suckling on his earlobe in an attempt to illicit another moan but instead, moments later, a soft hum of a moan escaped his own lips as Sherlock copied the tongue to his ear by peeking his own out to trace up the edge of John's maxillar, ending with a small nip to the lobe of his ear. John's blinking became lethargic again, eyelids lingering closed for a moment longer than they should. He twirled his fingers in Sherlock's hair, fingertips gently stroking his scalp. 

It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than Sherlock's touch, his hands, his lips, his _body,_ and so John found himself no longer trying: he gave into impulse, the hand against Sherlock's back stirring, gently tugging his shirt up and untucking smooth fabric to rest against warm skin.

Sherlock would later be ashamed to admit, if only to himself, that he gave a full body flinch as John's hand connected with the flushed skin of his back, palm warm and fingertips slightly cooler. The movement tore a tiny yelp out of him, too breathy to make any real sound, and he brought his body closer to John's. His hands slipped from where they were holding onto warm skin and Sherlock found them resting on the waistband of John's jeans, fingers just reaching the curve of his backside. As much as he loved the noise he had caused by running his tongue over the tiny prickly hairs just beginning to grow on John's jaw, he wanted the mouth that was playing with his ear on his own lips again. Dislodging said mouth from his earlobe with a bit less finesse than he intended, Sherlock turned his head and covered the thin lips with his own, wasting no time in mouthing the fleshier lower lip and running his tongue over the seam. What he lacked in technique he hoped to make up for in enthusiasm, bringing John's hips closer to his own by the hands laying on the doctor's lower back. He felt warm all over and strangely longing, wanting more contact than he ever had before and not quite knowing _why._ It was a yearning that didn't feel completely rational and unsettled him slightly, but not enough to stop what his body was doing. A thrill of happiness surged through John when Sherlock's mouth found his again, eyes slipping shut as their lips fit together, devouring breath and taste and _thought._ He wanted this—Sherlock, close—far more than he ever thought he did. Every touch reassured him that Sherlock was there, alive and well, and that he _wanted_ to be there. The novelty of Sherlock's touch being new had yet to wear off but its inexperience was no longer as prominent. John dragged his own fingers along the dimples near the small of Sherlock's back, his thumb sliding across small curves and resting in an indent, fitting nicely. They did, indeed, fit together—and not strictly in the physical sense. They had always complimented each other in ways no other person had been able to. It was a bit of a relief to know that John was no longer alone in this observation, to know that Sherlock thought they fit too. A small, soft groan escaped John and fell into the kiss as Sherlock drew him closer yet, their bodies pressing more firmly together. That was its own sort of wonderful—John _needed_ that contact, that reassurance. He needed Sherlock. The kiss seemed to go on forever. John was pliant and responsive under his lips and Sherlock felt slightly intimidated but mostly eager; John kept each movement of his lips and tongue deliberate, allowing Sherlock a chance to experiment, to control the kiss with that delicious enthusiasm. 

Sherlock let his tongue curl around John's, the tip running along the ridges and smooth planes under it, feeling the extra softness and comparing it with the rougher upper side. His tongue ran over the side of John's, where he could feel both textures at the same time, and once again he marveled at the complexity of the man before him. His brain failed to point out that all humans had the same tissues in their mouths and he let himself sink into the bliss of admiring this one man's contradictions beyond reason. Gooseflesh erupted along the nape of John's neck and shoulder-blades as Sherlock explored his mouth, running his tongue across each crevice to send a cascade of warmth through him. John pressed his fingers more firmly against Sherlock's lower back, fingertips dancing across flushed skin. Sherlock's exploration took him higher, to the back of John's front teeth, and he traced each and every one of them, noticing the slight gap between the central and lateral incisors on his right. He ran his tongue through there more times than he cared to count, and then went as far in as he could, counting. 30. He'd had his first molar on his right side removed, second molar on the left. Before he could theorize as to why, John's own tongue flicked against his own and he moaned, train of thought hopelessly derailed, and pulled back to look at John's face.

Sherlock smiled, irrationally happy to be there, _learn_ things about John that he hadn't known before—happy that he had stayed. Eyes opening, John looked to the man against him, gaze tracing each feature, following the curves and angles of his expression with a well-known intimacy as his own lips pulled into an unabashed smile.

“I'm happy you stayed,” Sherlock blurted out, smile faltering as he feared it would change the mood, remind John of what had happened and sour the moment. John's smile softened as the remark slid into his ear canal and nestled into his thoughts, Sherlock's hands moving around to the front of his stomach, still resting on the waistband of his jeans. Sherlock swept his thumbs back and forth on the skin below either side of the doctor's navel, a kind of apology in case he had ruined the atmosphere. More gooseflesh erupted, nerves firing rapidly, exposed and overly sensitive. John leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, steel-ray eyes fixating in brilliant cerulean. The warmth inside of John's gut swelled at the reassurance, happy to have it out-loud, real and spoken instead of assumed and imagined. He inhaled deeply, slowly, a strange, contented sort of breath.

“Good,” he muttered, smile widening a fraction of a breath. “So am I.”

There was something important about the moment, something Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. He, who was used to noticing and pointing out the relevant, couldn't figure out what was so significant about the smile on John's face, the short answer so loaded with meaning--what that meaning was evaded him--and the caress of John's hands, except that it was _John_ and John mattered. But that was general knowledge and this felt more than that. This felt specific, and yet the detective only had a vague feeling to go by. Eyes flickering from one dark pupil to the other, searching, Sherlock's right hand slid up John's torso, up to his ribs, then over the shirt that had bunched up and all the way to his jaw. The touch felt electric. He wanted to smile but for some reason his expression remained focused and intense, serious, as if wanting to mark the moment with a solemnity he couldn't really explain. John's expression softened in turn, his smile fading until his mouth melted into a gentle line. He recognized the familiar flit and flicker of Sherlock's eyes, the color of his irises whirling as he searched for an answer to what ever question his mind had posed. John remained perfectly still, a strange sort of anticipation swelling in his chest, shifting and shimmering until it blossomed out. The air between them intensified, crackled, and John inhaled sharply as Sherlock's touch stirred. He kept his eyes fixated solely on his detective's, taken aback but not intimidated by the intensity presented there.

"Stay.” 

The word , spoken in that baritone voice, came more as a command than a question. 

John could do little more than swallow, strangely breathless, and nod.

Sherlock softened his command by caressing the pad of his thumb over the curve under John's lower lip, dipping his face to ghost his lips over the same spot as he added a whispered, "For good.” 

When he straightened up again he finally let the corners of his mouth tilt up in a little smile before removing his hands altogether from John's body, John's hands sliding away as Sherlock lowered himself onto the bed, his eyes never leaving his flatmate's. 

A smile had painted itself across John's brow, the lines around either eye quirking up into the smallest hints of happiness. 

Genuine happiness. 

_Unbroken_ happiness. 

John gravitated toward Sherlock then, leaning into him, shifting so that his arm rested against Sherlock's chest, leaning his weight onto the elbow positioned between Sherlock's left shoulder and face, John's body curling against his side. John smoothed Sherlock's collar, his fingertips brushing against the hollow of his throat, eyes following the movement of his hand. He trailed his touch further up, keeping it feather-light as it glided across warm skin.

John trailed his touch further up, keeping it feather-light as it glided over Sherlock's pulse-point, along his Adam's apple and to the curve of his jaw. Sherlock's breathing quickened, becoming louder in the silence of the room. He swallowed at the first touch, feeling the movement of his throat lifting the finger pressed to it, and then shuddering as John's touch migrated to the rapid throb of his heart under his skin to his bobbing Adam's apple and, finally, to his slack jaw. He realized he must look ridiculous, mouth hanging open and awed eyes fixed on the figure above him, but he couldn't bring himself to school his features. If he couldn't quite put what he felt into words, he would at least let John _see_ what he did to him. John's eyes switched to Sherlock's.

Sherlock's breath hitched, uneven as it was, when the corner of John's mouth twitched into a small, almost wry smile, and he muttered, “Always.”

John knew the word to be horribly sentimental and cliché and _genuine._ He couldn't leave Sherlock if he tried. Sherlock could feel the weight of his words on his chest and limbs, pressing him down into the mattress. His body was completely relaxed, an unvoiced surrender, while all his neurons danced and collided, filling him with chemicals and hormones he wasn't even aware his body still produced. The sudden rush was strong and heavy and he closed his eyes aginst it, not unlike how he would have after a physical blow. John's fingertips ghosted the length of his jaw, his thumb brushing the high-spot of his cheek. That tingling touch pulled Sherlock out of his own overflowing brain and he opened his eyes as John's touch drifted further up, fingertips tracing the lines of each of his lips. A moment later, smile softening, John leaned down and closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's in a sweet, lingering kiss.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, only after a few moments of basking in looking at John's face from as close as he could get.

The kiss was all lips at first, the gentle movement of John's mouth against Sherlock's. But then—carefully, slowly—John deepened it, brushing his tongue along the seam of Sherlock's mouth until lips parted on their own accord. It was then, as the kiss deepened, that Sherlock's arms—which had been a dead weight at his sides—came alive to wrap around the doctor's back, pulling him closer. Gently, John drew Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth, earning a drawn-out moan, a moan that spiked in volume when enamel closed around the swollen flesh, blood having rushed to the surface from the previous ministrations to fill receptors with sensitivity. John smoothed the mark with his tongue a moment later, letting go of his bottom lip with a soft _pop_ before deepening the kiss further yet, his tongue running along the ridges along the roof of his mouth. Kissing Sherlock was still a wonderfully new experience in the way that their mouths fit together, the slight hairs sprinkled across their chins and jaws catching, creating friction. And yet somehow, kissing Sherlock was also familiar, comforting—something John knew he would never tire of, something that would never lose its novelty. He swirled his tongue around Sherlock's, warmth pooling in his gut. Sherlock's mouth tickled and a fission of sparks traveled straight to his groin, making him gasp. The noise coincided with John's removal of his mouth and was camouflaged by the doctor's descent to his jaw as he sprinkled an array of light, open-mouthed kisses to its curve, but the frantic clutching at the doctor's back gave his sudden desperation away. 

John could feel Sherlock tense underneath him, his body becoming a tightly wound coil, wrapping itself around John and drawing him in. The corners of John's mouth turned up into a slight, breathless smile, a smile that was laced with something previously forbidden, and he continued pressing sensual kisses to pale flesh. The hand that had been tracing Sherlock's features moments before fell to the curve of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, and John's mouth continued its slow descent along his jaw until his lips gently touched a kiss to his earlobe. Sherlock slipped his hands under John's shirt in one swift movement, fingers curling and running short, blunt nails up to the other man's shoulder-blade, causing John to arch toward him, and then insinuated his body further under John's. He wanted contact, _needed_ it like air— _more_ than air, going by his unattended panting—and his body moved of its own accord, legs spreading infinitesimally wider in the hopes of accommodating a certain army doctor between them.

Body automatically shifting as Sherlock wriggled closer, John let out a soft gasp, a muffled moan, a noise that reverberated through Sherlock's brain, making him tense as another wave of heat crashed into him. John moved his own person closer, his chest and abdomen pressed against Sherlock's, lower half angled out so that one leg was pressed firmly against his. He licked and nipped at Sherlock's earlobe, flicking his tongue along the shell of his ear before dipping further down, his kisses becoming more heated, a combination of lips and tongue and _teeth_ , as if he had every intention of exploring his detective's entire body with his mouth.

There was a number of things Sherlock discovered about himself in those moments. He liked fingers tangled in his hair, specifically John's fingers. They sent delicious tingles all the way down to his neck and ears, where John was applying his mouth. Another thing he learned: his ears were _very_ impressed with the attention.

He let out an almost pained sound, sliding his hands higher up John's back as the man slid down his body to press _soft and wet and_ warm—nouns were escaping him—to the long column of his throat. 

At that very moment, Sherlock consumed _every_ part of John: his thoughts, both conscious and subconscious, his heart, his body, his sense of touch—sight—smell—taste—hearing— _everything._ He consumed his pain, gave John the chance to forget, to focus on something else— _him—_ and the passion he evoked. And it was beautiful and right and brought him a happiness he was frequently unable to obtain. He wanted nothing more than to remain suspended in that moment, wrapped up in the other man in what ever way possible. Logic told him that it was impossible—told him that they should move slow—that he should refrain from completely investing himself in something that had the possibility of breaking him further so quickly—but logic was easily forgotten then, easily pushed to the back of his mind until it was nothing but a dull drone. He focused solely on Sherlock, on exploring his body with his mouth because, after he thought about it, that sounded like a rather brilliant idea. 

John focused on Sherlock's pulse point, lightly flicking his tongue over the pulsating vein before ghosting his breath over moist skin. He dragged his mouth further down, pressing several more lingering kisses to pale skin, until he reached the hollow of Sherlock's throat.

The shirt had bundled under John's armpits and it couldn't be comfortable, Sherlock thought, figuring he should be charitable and relieve him from the restraining garment. It was a better rationalization than the acute desire that demanded—in no uncertain terms—that he remove the barrier of clothing and press as much bare skin against bare skin as he could. He stuck with the first explanation, disquieted by the lack of control the second suggested, and brought his hands between their closely pressed torsos to begin unbuttoning his knitted jumper.

"John," he panted, for no good reason, other than declaring the man's presence, the effect he had on his body. A helpless explanation that didn't explain a thing, but hopefully cued the older man into the wild reactions inside him, and maybe, just maybe, allowed John to help him make sense of it all. John's eyes flicked up. The way Sherlock said his name, breathless, laced with desperation and passion—it made John's stomach flip and roll in anticipation, the warmth tightening, melting into pure arousal. 

He shifted, silently giving Sherlock permission to remove his jumper—he even lifted his arms when needed so that the other man could tug it over his head—before his mouth moved to Sherlock's exposed clavicle. Molecules of oxygen, different in temperature, hit flushed skin and caused it to tingle, gooseflesh erupting, scattering across his abdomen and back. The exposure of John's skin to Sherlock's eyes and hands made him moan a little in the back of his throat, a celebration and a plead all at once, and he ran his palms up and down John's back, circling them around to his waist and then sliding up his sides and to his ribs, thumbs rubbing over the former soldier's pectorals. There was little pause, little embarrassment that came with John's state of undress—such worries were pointless and held no bearing, had vanished long ago, buried under the first days of their living arrangement. Still, there was something different about the moment, something that caused his heart rate to spike, adrenaline coursing through his veins and mingling with arousal.

It was then that John's logic piped up again, its voice louder than before: Sherlock didn't know how to _kiss,_ which implied that he had never been affectionate with another person—and if he hadn't done _that,_ then he most certainly hadn't done—well, what ever it was he and John were doing. John hesitated, his kisses becoming lighter, a change that Sherlock could only barely feel, his mind clouded in a haze of _want._ The planes of the warm body above him, the alternating soft skin and hard muscles under it, were all that invaded Sherlock's attention. His eyes took in every exposed part of John, the lovely curve of his neck merging into clavicle and shoulder, then rising to become pectoral and flattening again around ribs and stomach. Their lifestyle had assured John stayed in shape, and while he had lost some of the musculature Sherlock imagined he'd had, John's body was anything but limp. It was strong, compact and sturdy. It was perfect, and Sherlock felt something expand inside him at the knowledge he got to _see_ it and _touch_ it and _taste_ it, maybe? His face was beginning to tilt upwards to press his lips and tongue between John's collarbones when the other man shifted, interrupting Sherlock's efforts midway and kissing him deliberately, slowly, before pulling back.

Dark eyes focused on a pair of equally dark ones, pupils blown open with lust. Sherlock could see the hesitation and conflict in the eyes above his.

“Sherlock,” John half-muttered, half-panted. He cleared his throat to stop the next few words from sounding pained, as every fiber fought against their declaration, wanting nothing more than to continue. “Maybe we should... slow down?” 

Sherlock sighed at the question. No. No, he did not want to slow down. He wanted to press his skin against John's, every single inch, and melt into it and be absorbed by his pores and crawl under all those layers and never leave. That made no sense, he mused, so he blinked a few times and tried to regain access to his mental faculties. In truth, he didn't _actually_ know what he wanted to do, seeing as he had never done it. He knew what he _didn't_ want to do and that was make a fool of himself and muck it all up—be a poor lover. Maybe… yes. Maybe they should slow down. John offered him a gentle smile. Taking a deep, steadying breath to cool down the heatwave causing havoc in his body, Sherlock let his hands drop from the death grip— _when_ exactly, had he tightened his hold so much?—they had on John's sides and nodded. Having been caught in the haze that was Sherlock, thick and consuming, John, too, had been unaware of the tight hold, and its relinquishment made his smile widen a fraction of a breath.

"Maybe," Sherlock agreed in a rough, low voice.

John shifted so that he was laying beside Sherlock then, his body tucked against his, and looped an arm around his abdomen. No matter what they did next, John had little to no intention of removing his hands from Sherlock's person. He never would, if he had his way—he wouldn't even shift away, but a bit of distance was for the best, lest he be tempted to start where he had stopped. The exposed flame that had been every nerve ending shifted at the distance John put between their bodies—if it could really be called that—and was nothing more than a simmering heat below his skin, not open and scorching but steady and low. Still there, never really letting off, but no longer overpowering and desperate. John propped his head up with his other arm, elbow pressing into a pillow, and leaned down to press a light kiss to Sherlock's clothed shoulder.

Now that his mind was slowly clearing itself, John knew that waiting would be better. He didn't want Sherlock to rush into something he would later regret—and besides, didn't anticipation always make such things better? 

Starting just below Sherlock's armpit, John ran his hand down his side, fingers dragging along the notches of each rib. Sherlock let his eyes fall shut, breath hitching with each rib John's fingers outlined, and he brought his own hand, the one on the other side of his body from where John was lying, up to cover the appendage. Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed in the gaze already focused on his face, but as John's touch danced to the smooth plane of his stomach, he closed his eyes again, pressing his hand over the doctor's and more firmly onto his skin. John remained quiet, listening to the sounds of their combined breathing, slightly erratic, thick with arousal; his eyes were fixated solely on Sherlock's face, surveying his expression. John was staring but thought it only fair, considering how frequently Sherlock pinned him under an unwavering gaze. He kept his eyes on Sherlock's face as Sherlock grabbed hold of his fingers and guided them down to the waistband of his trousers, where his shirt was still tucked in. He opened his eyes to look at John's face with an expression that hopefully conveyed what it wanted—contact, John's finger's trailing his bare skin. His expression caused John's breath to catch in his throat—Sherlock's eyes were still dilated, although less than before, and the curiosity dancing across his expression was unprecedented, an anomaly in and of itself. That curiosity was not the cause of John's stuttered breathing, however—nor was it the cause of his heart skipping, pulse quickening. No. There, written in the lines of Sherlock's face, along the slight dip of his brow and parted lips, was need. Pure and simple need. _Desire._

John swallowed, the knot of arousal in his stomach resurfacing, pushing itself toward the forefront of his mind again. He pressed his thoughts against it, struggling to stay coherent, and gave Sherlock's shirt a deliberate tug.


End file.
